


A Minor Problem

by GrrraceUnderfire



Series: Coming of Age: Peter Newkirk's Journey [1]
Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Adventure, Birthday, Books, Gen, Growing Up, Henry V - Freeform, I Claudius - Freeform, Overcoming Adversity, Prisoner of War, Reading, Reading Out Loud, Secrets, Stalag 13, Stuttering, Stuttering Peter Newkirk, The Highwayman - Freeform, The Hobbit - Freeform, Treasure Island, World War II, caught in a lie, reciting poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 89,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrraceUnderfire/pseuds/GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: Carter's bubbly persistence is grating on Newkirk, and there's a good reason why. He's well meaning, but the questions Carter is asking are about to spell big trouble for Newkirk. A revelation prompted by Carter’s curiosity and confirmed by a downed airman threatens Newkirk’s place on the team.
Series: Coming of Age: Peter Newkirk's Journey [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786459
Comments: 157
Kudos: 86





	1. The Birthday Present

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valashu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valashu/gifts).



> This story is for Valashu, who suggested the premise and has provided me with some major story details. I loved her idea so much that I decided to write for her birthday! It will probably be pretty long, maybe 12 chapters or so, because there's a whole lotta trouble to get through. (Update on April 20: I plan to wrap it up in 26-28 chapters. It keeps getting longer. Updated again on May 17: 42-45 chapters?)
> 
> Some of the details about Newkirk's family and history are different in this story from my usual head canon. But he still has the stutter, because that's how German viewers like Valashu know him!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this VERY DIFFERENT take on Newkirk. Please share your thoughts in the comments section!

“Hey! Well, whaddaya know!” Private Garlotti eagerly snatched the small parcel Sergeant Schultz was extending to him. Mail call was always exciting, provided you got something, but mail call with a package was extra special.

It was so special, in fact, that everyone expected you to open your parcel right there in the middle of the room, at the table that, at least in theory, they all shared. Even if most of the time that table was occupied exclusively by Colonel Hogan’s core team.

“Budge up, mate,” Newkirk said to Carter, who was beside him on the bench. “Let Tony have a seat ‘ere with us.” Newkirk tried at all times to maintain an air of cool detachment, but he couldn’t hide the sparkle in his eyes at the very thought of a package. He wanted to be right there when Tony opened it.

Garlotti tore through the brown paper, pried open a cardboard box, and delicately extracted a white leather globe slashed with red stitches. He grinned broadly.

“Two-point-nine-six inches in diameter, with 216 stitches,” Garlotti announced. “This, gentlemen, is a brand new, sparkling white, regulation, Major League baseball.”

The room erupted in whistles and whoops of approval and nods of respect as Garlotti passed the ball around. Spring was in the air, even here in a dreary POW camp.

“V-very nice stitching, that is,” Newkirk observed as it arrived in his hand, leaning close for a look with the discerning eye of a tailor. “W-what’s the point of that, anyway?”

Garlotti looked stumped for a moment and bit his lip. Sergeant Kinchloe, seated across from Garlotti, took the pristine object in his hand and studied it with a professorial air.

“Pitching a ball is about the drag caused by the interplay between the stitching and the air, Pete,” he said. He leaned over to Newkirk to show him a grip. “The way the pitcher controls the position of the stitches and the speed of the ball’s rotation lets him throw quite a few different pitches. A curve ball, a change-up, a sinker, a fastball…” He handed the ball back to Garlotti. “It’s a beaut, Tony. If it warms up, we can get out there and knock the cover off it.”

Newkirk nodded, baffled yet impressed as hell by Kinch’s ability to make something as simple as a baseball sound like a scientific wonder. Then again, this was a guy who could construct listening devices out of tin cans, old felt and bent washers. Newkirk snatched the ball back from Garlotti and grinned. “H-h-how, how would you throw a googly with this thing, Tony?”

Garlotti, Harper, Olsen and Carter laughed simultaneously. “A what?” Garlotti said.

“A g-g-g-g-googly,” Newkirk stammered. He was turning pink and regretting having spoken up. “Y-you know…”

“What the hell’s a googly?” Olsen sneered.

“Goo-goo-googly,” Harper said, apparently impressed with his own brilliance. “Goo-goo-ga-ga-googly.”

Newkirk felt like sinking under the table until Hogan finally spoke up.

“You fellas don’t know what a googly is? It’s a cricket player’s secret weapon – a crazy, wobbly throw that catches the batter off guard,” he said, commanding the room’s full attention. “It’s like a curve ball on a mission—am I doing this justice, Newkirk?” He smiled down at Newkirk, and could see the young corporal rebound from the teasing he’d just received. “I watched a bit of cricket on the village green when I was detailed as an instructor to an RAF unit in Wiltshire right before the Americans got in the war,” Hogan added.

“Not much else to do in Wiltshire, Sir,” Newkirk joked. “And yes, a googly l-l-l-looks like a normal lllleg-spinner, but it turns towards the batsman like an off-break instead of breaking away ffffrom the bat,” Newkirk explained earnestly. “When it’s bowled pr-properly, a googly is almost undetectable. You d-deliver it out of the back of your hand, with the wrist flat to the ground.” He looked up and smiled at Hogan with gratitude and relief for the rescue.

Kinch was nodding, always impressed by Newkirk’s passion for sports. He thought of him as a soccer guy, but apparently he knew a thing or two about cricket, too.

“The expert has spoken,” Hogan said, clapping a hand down on Newkirk’s shoulder. At that sign of protection and approval, no one would dare to tease Newkirk for at least five minutes. Hogan, still clasping Newkirk’s shoulder, turned to Garlotti. “What’s the occasion for this present, soldier?” he asked.

Garlotti bobbed his head, and then came out with it. “It’s my birthday next week. My dad sent this. Back home, we’d be planning to go to the Yankees opening day in April when the season starts. My dad always got tickets for me and him and my brothers for my birthday. We always have the best time.” He stopped and pursed his lips. “Damn. I miss home. My mom would be making me a special cake for this one, lemme tell ya.”

Happy birthday greetings filled the barracks with shouts and murmurs, along with a round of enthusiastic handshakes for the birthday boy. He was shaking out his arm in mock pain when Carter spoke up.

“Special cake? What’s special about it?”

Newkirk shook his head, wondering why Carter always had to ask awkward questions that punctured the jovial mood. Newkirk hated Carter’s questions.

Garlotti puffed out his chest. “I’m turning 30, guys. I’m an old man!” He wagged a finger at all of them. “You better show me some respect!”

“Hey!” Hogan responded with a grin. “I object to that!”

“Well, how old are you, Sir?” Garlotti asked.

“Thirty-four. Give me a couple more months and I’ll be half way to 40,” Hogan said, shaking his head.

“It’s all right, Sir,” Newkirk piped in. “Kinch and Carter are both excellent at whittling. They can mmmake you a very nice walking stick.” His droll delivery cracked up Hogan, who reached around Newkirk’s shoulder and pulled him into a hug. He sat with his arm draped around Newkirk as the banter continued.

“Hey guys,” Carter said. “I’ve got an idea! Let me start a list of all the birthdays so we can celebrate them!”

“How would we celebrate, Carter?” Olsen snorted. “An extra turn in the delousing station?”

More laughter. They didn’t have many afternoons like this, where everyone was relaxed and no missions were calling them away.

“ _Certainement_ ,” LeBeau said. “Let’s start the list.” He scrabbled around in his pocket, pulled out a nubby pencil, and handed it over to Newkirk, who rolled his eyes and passed it to Carter.

“OK, let’s start with you, Garlotti,” Carter said.

“Garlotti, Antonio Francesco Adriano. Confirmation name," Garlotti said apologetically to Carter. "March 25, 1913.”

“Colonel Hogan?” Carter continued.

“Hogan, Robert E. July 6, 1908.” The men whistled and repeated OH-EIGHT as it was ancient history.

“LeBeau, Louis. March 1, 1911. I just turned 32.” He looked at Garlotti. “Beat you! And since I’m probably the next-oldest, I think I should be Colonel-in-training.”

“Yeah, you keep thinking that, LeBeau!” Garlotti said.

LeBeau rolled his eyes.

“Addison, Winthrop H. October 9, 1915.”

“Winthrop? What's the 'H' for?" It wasn’t like Kinch to be rude, but this was Addison. He was overdue for a ribbing.

“Winthrop Hayborough Addison III,” Addison apologized. “Sorry. People call me Trip.”

“Trip, for triplicate, huh?” Hogan grinned in that shark-like way he sometimes had as Addison nodded in embarrassment. Hogan hid it well, but he didn’t much care for the upper-crust of American society. His mother came over from Ireland in her girlhood as a maid on Park Avenue, and boy did she have stories.

“Well, um, that’s interesting,” Carter said in his usual smooth way. “Who’s next?”

“Kinchloe, James I. April 6, 1913. We’re practically twins, Garlotti,” he said, and planted his tongue firmly in his cheek. Rollicking laughter.

“Harper, Stanley. September 17, 1910. You’re outta luck, LeBeau. I get to be colonel-in-training!”

LeBeau punched Harper playfully and with surprising strength, sending him reeling into Olsen, who looked extremely bothered.

“Olsen, Brian C. May 22, 1917. You guys are jerks.” He seemed to be directing his comments at LeBeau and Harper, but then he clarified. "All of you," he said, and smiled to show he didn't mean it. Possibly.

“Finally, some young blood!” Hogan grinned. “I was starting to think I was commanding a geriatric unit!”

“Not as young as me, Sir. Carter, Andrew J. February 20, 1919. Just turned 24!”

“ _Alors, quel enfant_. He wasn’t even born during the last war!” LeBeau marveled.

“My baby brother’s older than you, Carter,” Garlotti said.

“Then I take it back,” LeBeau said. “ _Quel b_ _éb_ _é_.” Everyone was doubled over at that, except for Carter, who was trying to grin gamely, and one other man. The others were laughing so hard that they didn’t even notice the look of apprehension that was crossing Newkirk’s face.

Carter ears were pink as everyone wiped tears of laughter from their eyes. He noticed that Newkirk was the only one not laughing and breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for his loyalty. He smiled at Newkirk and finally said over the din, “Well, how about you, Newkirk? When’s your birthday?”

Hogan, LeBeau, Kinch, Harper, Garlotti, Addison, Olsen… everyone turned to Newkirk expectantly.

Divert. Deflect. Misdirect. Newkirk was frantically running through alternatives in his head while desperately trying to maintain his cool. It wasn’t easy. Feeling everyone’s eyes on him always rattled him and made his stammer ten times worse. He could just lie, but he wasn’t sure he could get it out. He had to find some words he could actually say, and fast.

“W-w-what date did you say your birthday was, Harper? Because I think that’s our Mavis’ birthday too.” He had no idea what Harper had said, but it didn’t matter, because as of right now, that was when Mavis’ birthday fell.

“September 17, 1910? No kidding!” Harper said. “Is she the same age as me?”

“Um, I th-think she mmmight be a bit younger. I think she’s just gone 30. You know, I’m never sure with my sisters. They’ve been known to withhold important fffacts,” Newkirk grinned. He was climbing out of the hole he’d fallen into.

“Over 30? Your sister’s an old maid, Newkirk!” That, of course, was Olsen, who took every opportunity he could find to get under Newkirk’s skin.

“Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh,” Newkirk began. Olsen started snickering, and Harper and Addison fell right into line. “Sh-sh-she, she, she has a young man, b-b-but he’s in the Royal Navy. I th-thought they should have got mmmmarried before he shipped out b-but no one asked me.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it would have taken you a week to answer,” Olsen shot back. Newkirk rolled his eyes and Garlotti cuffed Olsen on the back of the head.

“Who’s the jerk around here?” Garlotti said as Hogan shot a warning sign to Harper, Addison and Olsen.

“Mademoiselle Mavis is very beautiful—I’ve seen the pictures,” LeBeau interrupted. “If that lovely girl is an old maid, then I’ll take two, please,” he added. Newkirk smiled gratefully. He didn’t want to have to thump Olsen if he could avoid it, but no one was going to pick on Peter Newkirk’s big sister and get away with it.

A lively discussion ensued about the marital prospects of women in their late 20s and early 30s, and Newkirk was feeling quite confident that he’d dodged a bullet. But Carter was nothing if not persistent and methodical.

“Hey, Newkirk we still didn’t get your birthday,” Carter said.

“Blimey, Carter, what do you need it for? I swear, you’re like a ruddy dog with a bone.”

“Yeah, but I need it for my list. We want to be able to celebrate you!” Carter said enthusiastically.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. “You don’t want to do that, mate. All the adulation would j-j-j-just go to my head and I’d become impossible to live with.” Trap set. Diversion under way.

“You’re already impossible to live with,” Olsen started in. “You leaves cigarette ashes everywhere, you drink all the coffee, you’re lousy at washing dishes…”

“Yeah, and let’s not even mention that nighttime activity of yours,” Harper said, piling on. “God almighty, Newkirk, it’s gonna fall off if you don’t leave it alone!”

“Oh? I assume you speak from experience, Harper?” Newkirk jutted out his chin, but his eyes were twinkling and his tongue was firmly in his cheek. He liked the way that came out, without a stumble. And he’d heard Harper going at himself plenty of times.

“No fighting, fellas, back off,” Hogan said.

“Yeah, just tell me your birthday, Newkirk,” Carter said. “I want to get this organized and put a list up on the wall!”

 _Bloody hell, Carter, don’t you ever stop?_ “Leave off. I d-don’t c-c-c-c-celebrate my bleeding b-b-b-birthday,” Newkirk said evenly, staring angrily at Carter. “J-j-j-just sh-shove your st-stupid list.” His arms were crossed, his cheeks were flushed, and he was boiling over.

It wasn’t hard to tell when Newkirk had had enough, and Hogan knew that moment had arrived. “That’s enough, guys. Carter, he can tell you in private.”

Carter was starting to apologize when Addison jumped in.

“What is it with your birthday, Newkirk? Is it a suh, a suh, a suh, a suh, a suh secret?” Addison persisted.

“Shut up, Addison! My st-st-st-stammer doesn’t sssssound like that!” Newkirk snapped. He stood and rushed Addison, head-butting him in the stomach. Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed his great coat and stomped outside.


	2. Rescue Operation

With a nod, Hogan sent Kinch and LeBeau out to find Newkirk. Then, before anyone else could disperse, he stood and pointed to the table.

“Sit, everyone,” Hogan commanded. He crossed his arms and sighed as Harper, Carter, Olsen, Garlotti and Addison took their seats.

“I don’t like having to repeat myself, but apparently some of you enjoy the sound of a broken record,” Hogan began.

“Yeah, Newkirk does,” Addison said. “He skips all the time.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Hogan said, his voice growing angry now. “Knock it off with Newkirk. Stop teasing him about his stutter.”

“Aw, we’re just kidding him, Sir,” Olsen said. “He takes it pretty well most of the time.”

“Yes, but you three don’t seem to know when to quit. So I’m telling you to stop. You can’t tease him about how he talks.” Hogan’s voice was stern.

“Why does he talk like that anyway, Sir?” Harper’s question seemed earnest.

Hogan exhaled. “I really couldn’t say, Harper. I know he’s been stuttering since he was a kid, and he’s worked hard to make to better.”

“It’s all in his head,” Addison said, spinning a finger next to his ear. At that, Garlotti jumped in.

“Addison, that’s what the Colonel’s talking about. Stop doing crap like that. Newkirk’s a good guy. He just has a little trouble getting his thoughts together.”

Carter had been sitting quietly but finally he piped up. “He can’t help it, and he never knows when it’s going to be easy or hard to talk. He says it kind of sneaks up on him.” Then he looked right at Addison.

“I can tell you one thing, there’s nothing wrong in his head. He’s smarter than most of us, except of course the Colonel here, because he’s really smart. Cause you don’t get to be Colonel if you’re not smart. And Kinch is pretty smart too—did you hear that explanation of physics? Aerodynamics, actually… well, anyway, Newkirk is plenty smart, and he’s not crazy if that’s what you were implying because I know crazy and that’s not Newkirk. There’s this guy in my hometown, Jimmy Wellford, now he was crazy…”

“Carter,” Hogan interrupted. “That was a very kind defense of Newkirk. But…”

“I know, Sir. ‘Shut up, Carter.’ Sorry, Sir.” Carter began to turn pink. Harper clapped him on the back.

Hogan smiled and winked at Carter. He wondered how a man so prone to verbal twists and turns had ever made Eagle Scout. The pathfinding badge must have been a killer.

“OK, if I could just continue. Why he stutters isn’t really the issue. But you are definitely making it harder for him when you pick on him. So that needs to stop,” Hogan said. “That means don’t mimic him. Stop interrupting him. And don’t laugh at him when he joins a conversation, because it’s hard enough for him to speak up. Understood?”

The men let loose a volley of "Understood"s, "Roger"s, and "Yes, Sir"s.

“All right, fellows. Be kind. Do better. Dismissed,” Hogan said.

The men stayed at the table, heads down, as Hogan headed to the door. Kinch and LeBeau hadn’t returned with Newkirk yet, and he wanted to see what was taking so long.

“Where’s he going?” Addison asked.

“Maybe he’s gonna go tell Newkirk to grow up a little,” Olsen snorted. “If he wasn’t always acting sensitive and storming out of the room, we wouldn’t get in trouble. I swear, he’s like my sister Sally. And she’s 16!”

“Maybe he’s on the rag,” Addison said. Olsen snickered, but everyone else just glared.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have pestered him so much about his birthday, Carter,” Harper said softly.

“Yeah, you were all over his ass about that,” Addison said. “I wonder what the big deal is anyway.”

“He doesn’t like being the center of attention,” Garlotti said simply. “My kid brother’s like that. Real shy."

“Newkirk’s not shy,” Olsen said dismissively. “He’s a big show-off.”

“No,” Carter said decisively. “Tony’s right. He is kind of shy. It’s not the usual kind of shy, but he’s quiet a lot of time, and he definitely doesn’t like everyone looking at him.” He paused. “I should have backed off, but I was so excited about my idea. Oh boy. Oh boy, I’m a lousy friend.”

“No, you’re not, Carter,” Garlotti said forcefully. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you who understands him so well.”

**XXX**

Out in the exercise yard, Hogan set off in search of his missing team members. He found them behind the shower hut. Kinch's back was to Hogan as he approached. He had his left arm extended as he leaned into the wall and faced Newkirk, who stood very close to him, head down, but apparently listening intently as he nodded. LeBeau stood just as close on the other side of Newkirk, his right arm around his friend’s waist.

Hogan strolled up to them, his hands in his jacket pockets. “Everything OK, fellas?”

Kinch and LeBeau turned instantly and nodded, and Newkirk looked up in misery.

“We’re getting things under control here, Colonel,” Kinch said.

Hogan came closer and reached an arm out to Newkirk. “Don’t let them get you down, soldier,” he said as he rested his right hand on Newkirk’s left shoulder.

“They talk too much,” Newkirk said. He lifted his right hand, made a loose fist, and pressed it under his nose. He rubbed and rubbed the top knuckle of his thumb into the corner of his mouth. It was a gesture Hogan had noticed before, something Newkirk did when he was very upset.

Kinch noticed too, and he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and handed it to Newkirk, who accepted it gratefully. “Yeah, they really do,” Kinch said. "Empty words, Peter."

“Thanks. I left me smokes in the b-b-b-b-b-b-b…” He paused to try again and came up with “hut.” He inhaled deeply and let out the smoke through his nose.

Kinch lit one for LeBeau, and offered one to Hogan, who waved it away. Then he lit one for himself and leaned back into the wall of the shower hut, sure that the Colonel was about to say something.

But Hogan was quiet. He was thinking about what Newkirk had said – “They talk too much.” How was he to answer a young man for whom any amount of talking could suddenly turn a sunny stroll into a lurch through a field of land mines?

It took a moment, but Hogan found the words.

“Just because they’re talking doesn’t mean you have to participate. Just because they’re asking questions doesn’t mean you have to answer,” Hogan said quietly. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say. And if there’s something you want to share with Carter—or with any of us—you can do it privately. I don’t want you to feel any pressure.”

Newkirk was looking back at Hogan with an expression of pure trust. “Thank you, Sir,” he said simply.

“You’re welcome. Now, if I ask you a question, that’s a whole different matter. You got that?”

Newkirk’s smile finally reappeared. “Yes, Gov, I think I’ve got that,” he laughed. “When you ask, I answer.” Together, they ambled back to Barracks 2.


	3. Licking His Wounds

As they strolled back into the barracks, three men at the table quickly vacated their seats. Newkirk, Kinch and Hogan settled in while LeBeau fussed over a pot on the stove. Some sort of dinner was burbling in a pot and it smelled savory.

Newkirk pulled out his cards and began running through a series of exercises he did several times a day. Most of the guys knew it was a solitary activity for him, something he did to think and settle down.

Newkirk held the entire deck in one hand, thumb on top, and index finger behind, cards resting on the other three fingers. He arched the cards back a bit and, with a little push from his index finger, riffled them into the opposite hand. He repeated the action twice, then split the deck and bridged them through several shuffles. He practiced a one-handed shuffle, then an overhand shuffle, then moved into his flourishes. Flicking up his left wrist, he fanned the cards to the right, making it look effortless even as he bit his lip in concentration. Then he laid the cards flat on the table, fanned them right, and turned them over in one deft move.

Hogan and Kinch watched in fascination. But they also had a few things to discuss about a pending mission. So they quietly got up and headed into the Colonel’s quarters, leaving Newkirk to concentrate on calming himself.

Suddenly the door to the barracks opened and a shadow loomed over Newkirk. “Want to play a hand of gin?” It was Carter, returning from wherever he'd been and disrupting Newkirk's flow of thought. Newkirk sighed and gathered up his deck.

“Not right now, Andrew,” he said. “Maybe later.” He offered a tight smile, then got up and climbed onto his bunk.

Carter looked desolate, and LeBeau noticed. This needed to stop right now, he thought.

“Ah, ah, ah,” LeBeau said as Newkirk found a cozy spot between all the lumps on his bunk. “You’ve had your fun. Now you two can peel some potatoes for me.” He plunked a pile of potatoes on the table. “Come on, get busy.”

“You act like I was arseing about,” Newkirk griped. “I was not. I was working.” He descended and sat back at the table anyway.

“That’s some work,” LeBeau snorted.

“Hmmph,” Newkirk replied. “I have a rrrreputation to uphold. I have to keep my skills in top shape.” But he set about the task LeBeau set him, and Carter joined in. LeBeau came over and put a few carrots in front of them, then ruffled Newkirk’s hair. Newkirk looked up at him and allowed a small smile.

They were absorbed in their tasks when Newkirk spoke softly.

“December 22,” he said.

“What?” Carter said. “What’s happening December 22?”

“You asked. I’m telling you. It’s December 22.”

“Oh. Your birthday?”

“No, Adolf and Eva’s wedding. We’re all invited. Of course, my b-b-b-b….” He heaved out a sigh. He didn’t have to spell it out.

Carter chuckled at the joke, and then sobered up. “Well, thanks for telling me, buddy. Because you didn’t have to. And I didn’t want to bug you again, ‘cause I could see I was getting under your skin. Boy, sometimes I don’t know when to shut up, you know? My mom used to say that. ‘My Andy can talk a blue streak,’ she’d say. ‘Questions, questions, questions.’ And she was right…”

“Yes, she was, Andrew.” He put down his work and grinned. “Y-you could talk nineteen to the dozen. Talk the hind leg off a donkey.” He picked up a potato and sighed. “Ffffunny, but nobody ever said that about me,” he added with a wink.

“You never talked your mom’s ear off?” Carter asked. He really couldn’t help himself with the questions.

“Really, Carter?” Newkirk put his potato down and looked across the table. Those eyes. God, he looked so bleeding innocent. Newkirk was quite sure his eyes had never looked that naive.

“No, I never did that,” Newkirk said. “I grew up in a house fffull of women. My mum, my granny and seven older sisters. Even if I c-c-could fform a sentence, I couldn’t get a wword in edgewise with all that nattering.”

“Wow. That’s a lotta girls. You have brothers too?”

“Two younger ones, yeah,” Newkirk said. “Ned and Georgie.”

“Are they both in the war?” Carter asked.

“God, no, they’re little k-…” He stopped himself and started again. “Th-th-they’re both still a bit too young,” Newkirk said. Time to redirect. “You have any brothers and sisters?”

“One of each,” Carter shrugged. “Carol’s 21 and just got married. Davey’s still in high school.”

“The same high school you blew up?” Newkirk asked.

“Yep,” Carter said proudly. “And boy, did Mr. Perkins, the chemistry teacher, have a heart attack when he showed up!” Carter was off and running now, and all Newkirk had to do was listen.

As Carter prattled on about his own brother, Newkirk did the math in his head. Ned was 13 now. Georgie was 11.

**XXX**

That night over dinner, Hogan laid out the details of a simple mission, the kind they did so often. Three British fliers had landed and connected with the Underground. Their job was to retrieve them and hold them at Stalag 13 until they could get them to safety in the hands of a more distant Underground unit. But it would have to wait a night or two. They’d had rain, and they needed a dry night to trek through the woods without leaving footprints in the mud.

Kinch had consulted the weather forecasts, and it looked like two nights hence would do. Hogan preferred one-to-one cover on any mission that involved transferring people, so he decided Newkirk and Carter would accompany him. Earlier in the day, Newkirk had been licking his wounds about Carter’s pushy questions, but they seemed to be over the hump now. They could work together.

That night, as Newkirk and LeBeau retreated outside for a final stroll around the parade ground in the early spring air, Carter pulled out his list. Hogan and Kinch, still nursing cups of coffee at the table, looked over.

Carter looked up and smiled. “Newkirk told me what to add,” he said. He pulled out his pencil and spoke as he wrote: “De-cem-ber-two-two. There!” Then he looked at the list, dissatisfied. “Dang it! He forgot to tell me what year! I’ll just ask him when he comes back in.”

Kinch quirked an eyebrow, and Hogan nodded back.

“Let’s not push it,” Hogan said to Carter. “For whatever reason, he’s private about his birthday.”

“The Colonel’s right,” Kinch added. “And Carter, it’s a good sign that he told you as much as he did. He trusts you.”

Carter seemed to accept that. “I was starting to think he hated me. Boy, I got him so mad. I guess I didn’t realize how hard I was pushing.”

“It’s Newkirk, Carter,” Kinch said. “He’s testy. It wasn’t your fault. Those other guys got him riled up, and you just got caught in the crossfire.”


	4. A Face from Home

The mission was afoot. Hogan led Newkirk and Carter through the woods to the Underground’s newest drop point—coordinates M-22 on their map. Less than two miles each way, and they’d have three more men that much closer to freedom.

Newkirk was guarding the door of the bombed-out schoolhouse that served as their meeting place while Hogan and Carter went inside to collect the packages. They emerged quickly with three chaps—Sergeants by the look of them, though it was hard to tell in the dark—and began to make their way back to camp. One of the men was supporting another, who had gashed his leg badly upon descent.

They tramped along, with Newkirk and Carter in the lead as the injured man—Osborne was his name—leaned heavily on his companion. The third man, the tallest of the three, trailed just behind them, plainly exhausted and quietly observing. No one got the names of anyone but Osborne, and that was just as well. It was risky to converse, especially in English, while moving undercover in the middle of the German countryside. Hogan brought up the rear, his eyes sweeping all around to ensure their safe passage.

The injured man slowed their pace, even after Carter fell back to offer a replacement shoulder as grinding fatigue forced the second British sergeant to ease his load. But 40 minutes later they were down in the tunnel. LeBeau was there to greet the men, offer food and show them where to sleep while Hogan’s team ducked into the wardrobe alcove to change out of their camouflage blacks.

Newkirk was the first done, and he emerged into the larger room where the men were settling in and where LeBeau was waiting with pots of cold cream and basins of warm water to help the men get the grease paint off their faces. LeBeau was scolding Newkirk about the smudge he’d left on his forehead when Hogan came into the room and announced, “Wrap it up, Newkirk, it’s my turn.”

“Newkirk?” Across the room, a head swiveled around. The tallest Sergeant, who had just been devouring a sandwich, squeezed his eyes in the dim light. “Peter Newkirk? Is that you, lad?”

The accent was unmistakable, even to Hogan, LeBeau, Carter and Kinch, who hadn’t grown up anywhere near London’s East End.

“You know one another?” Hogan said with a grin. “Sergeant…”

“O’Keefe. Martin O’Keefe. Of course I know Peter. Cor, look at you—you’ve grown a few inches since I last saw you! But what the ‘ell are you doing over ‘ere? Does your mum know…”

“Of c-course my mum knows where I am, Martin! Good to see you, mate,” Newkirk replied, going over to give the Sergeant a hardy handshake. “I w-wouldn’t be mmmuch of a son if I didn’t tell her str-str-straight away that I’d landed in Germany. How’s the missus, Martin?”

“Oh, Alice is grand. We’ve got a little nipper now, a boy just turned 1, and a new baby on the way,” O’Keefe said. “But Peter, ‘ow on earth…”

“The usual way, Martin. I fffffell from the sky. B-been here ooh, mmust be t-two years now.”

Newkirk wrapped an arm around the Sergeant as if he was just so happy to see his chum, and walked purposefully toward a corner.

“Keep shtumm, will you?” Peter hissed under his breath. “I’ll tell you all about it, but not ‘ere. They can’t know.”

O’Keefe shook his head. “You were always a barmy nipper, Peter, but you’ve gone Gert and Daisy, you ‘ave. You can’t be running about playing soldiers. You could bloody well get killed out there.”

“Look,” Newkirk said, brushing off O’Keefe’s uniform tunic for show, “don’t say nothin’ to no one. I’ll be down ‘ere in the morning to explain everything. You’ll understand.” He looked him in the eye. “I’m j-j-j-j-just ‘ere serving King and Country, like you are, Martin. It’s no d-different.”

“No different, he says,” O’Keefe said, shaking his head. “You’re a bleedin’ town crier, Peter Newkirk.”

They rejoined the group in the center of the room.

“So how do you guys know each other?” That was Carter, as usual. He grinned up at O’Keefe, who was a lanky 6 footer. 

“I dated Peter’s sister Annie,” O’Keefe said. “Lovely girl. Doesn’t look a bit like ‘im.”

“Thank God, because I don’t need you crawling all over me for favors tonight,” Newkirk replied. “Well, any road, she’s now married to Charlie,” Newkirk said. “Lindley,” he added for O’Keefe’s benefit.

“That lazy blighter?” O’Keefe joked.

“That lazy blighter is a very good provider for my sister and ‘er little girls,” Newkirk said with a laugh. “Blimey, they must be big girls by now.” He looked up and thought. “Caroline is 6 and Lesley is 4. I ‘aven’t met the baby.”

“You can’t blink, mate,” O’Keefe said. “They grow up fast.”

Newkirk looked at him with a level gaze and could feel himself turning pink. _Bloody good thing it’s dark down here_ , he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shtumm is London slang for “Be quiet.” Barmy means “crazy”; so does Gert and Daisy, which is Cockney rhyming slang. Town crier is also Cockney rhyming slang, meaning “liar.”


	5. Rise and Shine

Once their visitors got settled in for the night, Hogan and his team climbed back up into the barracks. It was nearly 1 A.M. and Carter was bubbling with enthusiasm. Meeting new people always got him excited, and this time there was the added bonus that one of them actually knew Newkirk.

“O’Keefe seems like a real nice guy, Newkirk,” Carter said. “So he dated your sister Annie? Which one is she? ‘Cause you have so many of them.”

“Hard for me to k-keep ‘em all straight,” Newkirk grumbled. Then he yawned loudly. He needed more sleep than he was getting.

“You really can’t tell them apart? Wow! Because I have 14 first cousins and I can tell all of them apart,” Carter said. “I was just wondering…” Suddenly Carter stopped himself. _I’m doing it again_ , he thought. _Newkirk’s gonna get mad that I’m being such a … what does he call it? A nosy Parker_.

Newkirk must have seen the glum expression that washed over Carter’s face, because his tone suddenly changed. “Annie’s the second one. Right after Mavis and before Eliza. She was the fffffffirst one mmmarried, and like I said, she has two little girls and a new b-baby.”

“Are they all married? Except for Mavis of course, because we know she’s…”

“An old maid. I know,” Newkirk said sourly.

“Waiting for her sweetheart to come home is what I was going to say,” Carter said. “Sorry.”

Newkirk sighed. “Yeah, well only the three after Mavis are mmmmarried. Annie, Eliza and Helen. The rest are still a bit y-y…” He halted himself. “There are sssso few chaps at home. The other g-g-g-girls are working in factories,” he said.

“What are their names?”

“Oh for the love of God, Andrew…” Newkirk yawned. “Must you keep rabbiting on with your questions when I’m so bloody tired?” He was changing into his nightshirt and climbing into his bunk when he saw the hurt expression on Carter’s face. He sighed and gave in.

“There’s Violet and Rose,” Newkirk said as he stretched out, face down, propped up on his elbows. “They’re identical twins, so they got matching names. Then Nora. Then me and then the younger lads, Neddie and Georgie.” He laid his head down and drifted asleep quickly, dreaming of home and family.

The other members of the team, buzzing from adrenaline, were gathering around the table for a debriefing by candlelight.

“Should we wake him up?” LeBeau asked, gesturing up to Newkirk.

Hogan was standing between the table and the bunk, with his back to Newkirk. He stretched his back, then turned to shake the Corporal awake. But he stopped himself. Newkirk was fast asleep, belly down, his face soft and relaxed. Newkirk often went through the days coiled like a snake, ready to strike, but at this moment, he looked completely harmless and innocent. Hogan smiled at the sight. He’d seen this happen before—Newkirk was known to crash into bed exhausted before everyone else. He looked so serene that Hogan decided to let him sleep. It had been a routine mission, nothing much to discuss, so Hogan snugged the blanket around the sleeping soldier, patting him gently on the back.

“Let him rest,” Hogan said as he returned to the table. “He seems to need a little more sleep than the rest of us.”

XXX

Newkirk had every intention of getting up before the rest of the men in the morning to have a little time to talk to O’Keefe. But it was not to be. When he finally woke, it was because Kinch was shaking his shoulder. Men were already gathered around the stove, pouring cups of coffee.

“Roll call’s in seven minutes, Peter,” Kinch said as Newkirk sat up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. “These late night missions are hard,” he said softly.

“This old body can’t take much more abuse,” Newkirk mumbled as he climbed down.

“Old body,” Garlotti echoed. “Tell me all about it—I’m the one who’s five days away from 30. How old are you, anyway?”

“Old enough to know that if I romp through the woods at night, I’ll feel achy and stiff in the morning,” Newkirk replied. Then he changed the subject. “How are we going to celebrate Garlotti’s big day, LeBeau?” he asked over his shoulder.

“With a very, very small cake,” LeBeau said. “I’ll scrape together something,” he said apologetically, nodding at Garlotti. “It won’t be what your _maman_ would make, but it will be delicious.”

“Ooh, how about cupcakes?” Carter said. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could make some of those? We always had cupcakes at our birthday parties. Hey, Newkirk, what were birthday parties like in England? Do you have balloons and cupcakes and candles?”

“Of course we do, in children’s stories. You know, like Eeyore’s birthday.”

Carter looked at him, confused, so Newkirk, against his better judgment, pressed forward with an explanation: “The donkey from W-Winnie-the-Pooh, mate. It was his b-birthday, and his mmmates gave him a Useful Pot to Put Things In and a Box of P-p-p-paints to Paint Things With.” Still no reaction. “Nnnone of this is ringing a bell, is it?” Newkirk finally said.

“Sorry, no,” Carter admitted.

“Well, the point is that’s the closest I ever got to a b-birthday party. Never heard of such a thing on our street.”

“Oh,” Carter said. “No cake?”

“No cake,” Newkirk said. He looked at Carter and saw his eyes cloud with sorrow and took pity again. “A c-c-cake would be very nice, though. I mmmmean, who wouldn’t like a cake? With pink icing,” he said decisively. Then he turned to LeBeau.

“D-d-d-d-do you have them in Paris, Louis? Birthday parties, I mean?”

“Oui, d’accord,” LeBeau said. “Only we substitute glasses of wine for the balloons.”

“But not for the kids,” Carter said.

“Of course for the kids,” LeBeau said. “How else would they learn?” He shook his head at the appalling ignorance of Americans as the whistle blew to summon the men to roll call.

”Bloody hell. I didn’t get a chance to shave,” Newkirk said as they shuffled out the door.

LeBeau peered up at Newkirk. “I think you can wait a day, mon pote.” 


	6. Oh, What a Tangled Web We Weave...

As the men filed back into the barracks, Carter was in overdrive.

“You really never had a birthday party, Newkirk? Boy, when I was a kid, birthdays were the most exciting thing, except for Christmas.” Then Carter stopped and thought. “Of course in your case, that’s almost the same thing since your birthday is so close to Christmas. Maybe you didn’t have birthday parties because it was practically Christmas, right?”

“We didn’t have Chr-Chr-Christmas either, so bang goes your th-th-th-th-th-theory,” Newkirk said, squeezing his eyes shut as he fought with his tongue to push out the word. He hated when he squinted like that, and he sat down, looking irritable, and lit a cigarette. “Th” was the worst sound to get stuck on because it made it seem like he had a lisp on top of a stammer, which he most certainly didn’t. He felt his cheeks blazing.

But Carter wasn’t thinking about the sounds or faces Newkirk was making at all. He simply looked stunned at the information Newkirk had imparted and was searching for how to respond when Hogan came sauntering through the door. Hogan had lingered outside longer than his men, having spent a few extra minutes in his customary role of Klink’s chief tormenter.

“Newkirk,” Hogan said, oblivious to the discussion underway. “Just the man I need.”

“Sir?” Newkirk replied, emerging from his sulk.

“They’re your countrymen down below, so I’d like you to be the one to check in on them and see what they need,” Hogan said. Then he smiled. “And you can catch up with your old pal O’Keefe.”

Newkirk managed to say “Righto, Gov,” but he felt a chill run down his spine. He’d been so tired that he forgot about O’Keefe. There was an urgent matter they needed to discuss, and he had a feeling Martin wasn’t going to make it easy on him. He had a flashback to the time when Martin was trying to get to know Annie better on the sofa in the Newkirk family’s parlour. Martin had caught him peeking out from behind the sofa, wrestled him to the carpet, and then tickled him until he wet himself. Well, that had been some time ago, Newkirk consoled himself. Perhaps Martin had forgot, though he never would. His father had boxed his ears and taken him off for what he called one of his lessons.

Newkirk stubbed out his cigarette and headed down below. Carter watched him go and then turned to Kinch and Hogan, who had taken up residence at the table, and LeBeau, who was pouring coffee for them.

“It’s bad enough he never had a birthday party, but Christmas? He never had Christmas?” Carter said, sound incredulous. “That’s so sad.”

“Newkirk?” Hogan said, looking over to where the bunkbed that hid the tunnel entrance had just snapped back into place. He generally tried to stay out of the drama and counted on his men to sort out conflicts on their own, but this time Carter was clearly shaken, and he wanted to know why.

Kinch nodded at Hogan, then spoke softly to Carter. “That’s what he said, Carter. I’m sure he’s not joking. He grew up very poor. With so many mouths to feed, there wasn’t money for frills.”

LeBeau took his seat. “Carter, I know you mean well, but I think this is why Newkirk doesn’t want to answer your questions. It’s painful for him to be reminded that he never had the little things we all take for granted, like a simple cake and candle and a present for Christmas.” His voice was gentle and measured, but his eyes were imploring Carter to just stop.

“That’s good advice, Carter,” Hogan said decisively. “I know you’re only being friendly, but we don’t need Newkirk on edge. We’ve got a mission tonight that depends on his sticky fingers.”’

**XXX**

“There you are. About bloody time,” O’Keefe said as Newkirk landed at the bottom of the ladder.

“Keep your hair on, Martin. I got here as ffffast as I could. Wwe do have appearances to mmmaintain, you know. If we don’t t-turn out for formation the Kommandant will have a fit,” Newkirk said. He nodded to Osborne, who was reclining on a cot and wincing a bit, his leg carefully wrapped, then went over to shake the hand of the other sergeant, whom he hadn’t met yet.

“I’m here to see what you ch-chaps need. Pl-pl-pleased to meet you, Sergeant, my name’s N-n-n-n-n-n…” he struggled as the other man looked on baffled. “N-n-n-n-n-…” God, his tongue had turned to cotton and seemed to be stuck behind his front teeth. He knew how odd this must look. “Nuh, Nuh,” he pressed out. “N-n-newkirk. Corporal P-p-peter N-newkirk. Sorry about the st-st-st-stammer,” he said. “Names are bloody difficult for mmme to say.”

“Even your own?” the sergeant asked in wonder.

“Especially my own,” Newkirk replied.

“It ‘asn’t got any better, ‘as it?” O’Keefe said gently.

“How would it? It doesn’t work like that,” Newkirk snapped. “Ssssorry, sorry Martin. This thing’s like a bleedin’ rugby tackle. It gr-grabs me right around the legs and knocks me down. I sp-sp-spend all day trying to bounce and reload.” He paused to look at the other Sergeant. “Sorry, Sergeant, I got so balled up that I forgot to ask your name.”

“Wandsworth,” the sergeant replied.

Newkirk’s eyes grew wide. “Really? Blimey.” He backed away in awe and pulled O’Keefe into a corner.

“Look, mate, all you need to know is that I’m here on the same basis as everyone else. I went through basic training. I met all the requirements…”

“…Except one,” O’Keefe said.

“Possibly, yes,” Newkirk allowed. “But they don’t know. And they don’t need to know. I’m part of a team here and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Plus I have a bed to meself and three m-m-mmeals a day for the fffffirst time in me life. Don’t mess it up for me.”

“Does your mother know?” O’Keefe asked.

“Yes. Well, she does now,” Newkirk answered. “Once the old man left, I had to step up. It was my ffffault he went, and my responsibility to provide for her and Nora and the lads. So I’m providing. Especially for Nora’s sake.”

“And you don’t think your commanding officer needs to know?”

“Him? Of course not!” Newkirk protested.

That was when Hogan rounded a corner and appeared before them.

“What exactly is it I don’t need to know?”

“Nothing, Sir,” Newkirk said.

“It didn’t sound like nothing,” Hogan said sternly. “Try again.”

O’Keefe took a deep breath. “We were talking about the fact that Peter joined the RAF when he was underage. He lied about his age to get in.” He paused, licked his lips, and then added, “but it’s alright now. He’s, um…”

“Of age,” Newkirk said. “I’m of age n-now, Sir.”

“Really? If memory serves, your record shows you’re 23,” Hogan said. “A few months younger than Carter.”

“That’s correct, Sir, b-b-b-but I was 17 when I went in,” Newkirk said. “So, so, so, so I’m 20 now. Sorry to deceive you.” His eyes cut over to O’Keefe.

“I’m sure Peter meant well, Sir. ’E always does,” O’Keefe said. “Known ‘im since ‘e was a nipper, I ‘ave and ‘e just seems to be a magnet for trouble.”

“I’m sorry I Iied, Sir. It would break my, my, my, my mum’s heart if I ended up in the infantry after all the st-stories she heard about me old man’s war, so I enlisted before the war got crowded,” Newkirk said.

“Well,” Hogan said, “There’s no real harm done, since you’re of age now. Sit down with Kinch later so he can adjust your personnel file. Get finished here finding out what these guys need for the next few hours, and then come see me – we’ve got a mission tonight that requires your particular skills,” Hogan said with a grin.

Newkirk and O’Keefe watched as Hogan retreated back up the ladder. Then Newkirk let out a deep breath.

“Thanks, mate. That could have gone a lot worse,” he said.

“Yeah, well, it’s the last time I’m lying for you. You’re going to tell 'im before I leave tomorrow, or I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wandsworth is the name of a notorious London prison, which is why Newkirk reacts oddly to the sergeant.


	7. ...When First We Practice to Deceive

Newkirk was ruminating as he and Colonel Hogan got ready for an after-hours excursion to Würzburg, an hour and a half away. Martin had spilled the beans and then scraped half of them back into the cooking pot, and Newkirk prayed they would stay there. He didn’t think he could bear it if his team mates lost faith in him. He hoped that if they knew why he had lied, they would understand and forgive him. And above all, he hoped they wouldn’t treat him as anything less than their equal.

Klink had left after lunch to attend a wedding and Schultz was in charge, ensuring that evening roll call would be a lax affair. It would not be too difficult for Hogan and Newkirk to beg off and exit camp for an event that would begin at 8 p.m. Hogan would take the wheel of a borrowed staff car at 7 p.m. when it was already dark, and they would be fashionably late.

They were dressing as Luftwaffe officers to infiltrate a promotion party in honor of Captain Gerhardt Ortmann. He was only 24, but Ortmann’s analysis of the RAF’s efforts to develop an airborne, ground scanning radar system had earned him accolades and a promotion to Major. It had also earned him the attention of Rudolf Wodarg, a rising star in Luftwaffe Intelligence, who was personally traveling to Würzburg to pin on the new major’s collar insignia. And anything Wodarg was carrying was of interest to Allied High Command. Newkirk’s job was to locate, isolate and open his briefcase; Hogan’s job was to quickly analyze its contents and photograph anything of value.

While Newkirk was lost in thought, Hogan was observing him. He wasn’t obvious, but he was taking mental notes as Newkirk slipped off his undershirt and put on a regulation Luftwaffe version.

Hogan hadn’t shown it, but he had been jolted by Newkirk’s admission that he had lied about his age to get into the RAF and was now only 20. He’d sat across the table from Newkirk for months without ever suspecting that he was younger than he claimed. He certainly didn’t look much younger than the majority of the men. Of course, they almost all looked young to him. He’d been stunned to learn Garlotti was turning 30, because had such a boyish face.

The prisoners were by and large in their 20s; some looked mature, but some were still were baby-faced, and many were young enough to have a few more years to really fill out. Military training had made them lean; hard living and poor diets had made them haggard. And men who smoked as heavily as Newkirk did added some years to their appearance the longer they puffed. All those factors, coupled with Newkirk’s usual gruffness, had made it easy to accept that he was 23.

But now he could see he could be younger. Newkirk’s chest hair was almost non-existent, just a tiny patch on his breastbone. He had a thin line of hair below his navel, not the thicker abdominal hair most men sported. His beard was meager; LeBeau had teased him for that, and Newkirk’s response was that it ran in the family. He seemed a bit more solid than he had been when they met six months earlier, but Newkirk still had the slender build of youth. And whenever a deeply relaxing sleep claimed him, he looked softer and younger.

The lie troubled Hogan and made him wonder why it was necessary. But Newkirk’s value to the team was beyond question. His skills were uncommon and his commitment was total, even if he occasionally balked before agreeing to a difficult assignment. And that commitment went two ways. He’d have to talk to the Corporal about how lying weakens trust, but he would stand behind him no matter what.

They could talk tomorrow. For now the focus was the mission. Wodarg was the object of much interest in London because he appeared to be next in line to assume command of Luftwaffe Intelligence. Generalleutnant Josef Schmid had been relieved of his duties in October; the interim head, Obserstleutnant Josef Koegl, did not appear to be up to the task. It was down to Wodarg and Oberstleutnant Walter Kienitz, who was well regarded for his skills but totally lacking in charisma. Any day now, it appeared, Wodarg would get Koegl’s job. London needed to get to know him better, and Hogan and Newkirk were going to help.

**XXX**

As they entered the house, a maid was taking coats and storing briefcases in the cloakroom. Hogan tipped his head and raised his eyebrows, but Newkirk shook his head. Not a chance that an important officer like Wodarg would check his bag there. No, assuming he had arrived, it had to be somewhere else.

The first task was to find Ortmann and Wodarg. Ortmann was easy to spot. He was fresh faced, fair haired and athletic, yet owlish, peering through a pair of round spectacles as people gathered round to talk to the boy wonder and offer congratulations.

 _He’s a swot_ , Newkirk thought, _but not entirely joyless_. A vibrant young woman a year or two Ortmann’s junior was clutching his elbow, a gold band glittering on her left hand. They were engaged, Newkirk realized; she would switch it to the right hand as soon as they were married.

“ _The fraulein might be of help_ ,” Newkirk whispered to Hogan in German.

“ _You’re always thinking about frauleins_ , Hogan responded. “ _But I see what you’re saying. She must know where he is, so she’ll know where the package is._ ”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Newkirk replied. “ _Do you want to try her, or shall I_?”

“ _Give it a whirl_ ,” Hogan said. “ _I’ll cover you_.”

Newkirk strode over to the Ortmann’s fiancé and gave her a quick nod. “ _Excuse me, fraulein_ ,” he said. “ _I’m wondering if you can help me_.”

“ _Of course, Leutnant. What is it_?” She smiled with the graciousness of a born hostess, her blue eyes sparkling.

“ _They sent me over from headquarters with Oberst Wodarg’s lighter. He’s a heavy smoker and will be terribly peeved if he realizes he forgot it. I was told to place it in his overcoat pocket so as not to embarrass him. He hates any sign of inefficiency or forgetfulness, especially in himself,_ ” Newkirk said. He cast his eyes down to look anxious and shy, biting his lip for emphasis. The young woman lapped it up.

“ _Of course, Leutnant_ ,” she said warmly. “ _His things are in the reception room right down here. Let me show you_.”

“ _It’s not necessary, Fraulein. I would hate to take you away from this gay affair. The guest of honor is your fiancé, after all, and he needs you at his side. Perhaps you could just point me to the room._ ”

Armed with directions, Newkirk sauntered down the hall as Hogan, drink in hand, excused himself from a small knot of guests engaged in a tedious discussion of the weather. “ _Third door on the right_ ,” Newkirk said quietly as Hogan fell into a stride beside him.

They arrived at the door, nodded briskly to one another, and assumed their characters. “ _I’m sure they said to leave our coats right in here_ , _Otto_ ,” Hogan said loudly as he pushed open the door. 

A man was inside. It was Oberst Wodarg.

“ _May I help you gentlemen?_ ” he asked.

“ _Oh, I beg your pardon. We must have the wrong room. We were told to leave our coats in here_ ,” Hogan replied.

“ _I think it must be the next room_ ,” Wodarg responded. “ _I was promised a private space. I’m en route to Berlin. I’m sure you both understand_ ,” he said.

“ _Of course, Herr Oberst_ ,” Hogan said, clicking his heels and turning. Newkirk did the same and followed quickly behind him. They headed purposefully down hallway, then took refuge in a corner.

“That was r-ruddy close,” Newkirk said breathlessly.

“ _Speak German_ ,” Hogan replied. “ _Otto_ ,” he added with a snicker.

Newkirk rolled his eyes, but nodded. They waited until they heard the door to Wodarg’s room open, followed by a click of the lock, and then footsteps retreating toward the party. Hogan peered around the corner and waved Newkirk behind him.

“ _Can you open it?_ ” Hogan asked.

“Does Betty Grable sleep on her back?”

“ _German!_ ” Hogan hissed. As Newkirk crouched down, Hogan stood blocking him from view, pretending to look for his room key. The door clicked and they were in.

They searched the room for a briefcase, but found nothing. So Newkirk got busy unlocking the wardrobe.

“Eureka,” Hogan said as he spotted the briefcase. He was at the door, listening for any sounds outside.

“ _That’s not German_ ,” Newkirk pointed out as he ran his finger over its seams to figure out how it worked.

“It’s all Greek to me,” Hogan quipped. “ _Hurry up, open the case_.”

Newkirk leaned an ear down and produced a snap-snap. He looked back at Hogan and grinned. Then he opened it. It was empty except for a manila file folder.

“Bloody hell. _All that, and it’s empty_ ,” he snapped.

“ _Then put it back. He’s definitely carrying papers. They’re somewhere else_ ,” Hogan said. “ _And, German_!”

Newkirk quickly secured the briefcase and re-clocked the wardrobe. He watched as Hogan rechecked drawers.

“ _We looked there, Sir. If I was going to hide something…_ ”

Then Newkirk noticed the small table in the corner with three chairs around it. He sniffed the air. This room was stale – nobody used it much. He walked to the table and looked down at the carpet. There were four small indentations in the rug. He pulled back the chair and reached under the seat.

“ _Got it_ ,” he said proudly. The chair had been moved for the first time in a while. A sheaf of papers were in a hidden compartment underneath.

Hogan grinned broadly and took the papers from Newkirk, waving him to the door to take over guard duties. He quickly reviewed the papers, snapped photos, and got Newkirk’s help in putting them back. They could be on their way now.

**XXX**

His hands on the steering wheel, Hogan looked across the front seat at Newkirk dozing in the car on the way back. _Out again_ , he thought. He knew Newkirk would jolt awake at the slightest noise—he’d seen that happen often—but there seemed to be no danger and no downside in letting him catch up on his sleep. He seemed to need at least nine hours a night. _Just like me when I was in high school_ , Hogan laughed to himself. _Or my plebe year. My God, all I could do was march_ , _eat and sleep_.

It had been a successful mission. Newkirk’s smart instincts had been on display, and Hogan was impressed. He had known where to focus, and more importantly, where not to waste time. He had charmed information out of Ortmann’s fiancé, followed Hogan’s lead perfectly when they ran into Wodarg, skillfully disarmed every lock in his path, found the secret hiding place, and left no traces. A lie he told when he was 17 for the express purpose of entering military service was a small thing in comparison to his significant skills, Hogan told himself. And after all, what did he expect? Newkirk’s fundamental qualification for the work he was doing was that he was an exceptionally versatile and resourceful thief. He’d be a fool to think he was an angel.

As they approached Stalag 13, Newkirk woke from his slumbers with a start, as usual.

“We’re almost there,” Hogan said quietly. “You OK?”

“Yes, Sir, I just felt that last bump,” Newkirk replied.

 _His words came out fine_ , Hogan thought. Newkirk was usually free of his stammer when he was just waking up. “Good work tonight, Newkirk. You showed a lot of ingenuity.”

“I don’t think I know that word, but it sounds like a compliment,” Newkirk yawned.

“You were clever and resourceful. Better?” Hogan asked.

Newkirk smiled. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Gov.”

They deposited the car at the roadside spot where Kinch had made arrangements for its retrieval, picked their way through the woods, and came through the tunnel. It was late and it was quiet. They changed and cleaned up, and then Hogan waved Newkirk off to bed while he checked in with Kinch in the radio room.

When he got there, Kinch and O’Keefe were both waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ortmann is an original character, but the details about the changes afoot in Luftwaffe Intelligence are factual. This story takes place in March 1943. Until the fall of 1942, Josef “Beppo” Schmid ran Luftwaffe Intelligence, but he tangled with Goering and was driven out in disgrace. For the next 4-5 months, Josef Koegl stepped in but he was a disaster, and he was replaced in March or April 1943 by Rudolf Wodarg. Walter Kienitz stayed on as deputy and succeeded Wodarg in 1945.
> 
> The italics in quote marks are conversations in German. The italics NOT in quote marks are the characters thinking/talking to themselves. When Hogan is thinking about his plebe year, he means his first year at West Point. A swot is a hard-working and studious person who is considered to be not much fun.


	8. Confession

Hogan grinned at Kinch and O’Keefe, ready to fill them in on the evening’s exploits. Talking about it helped damp down the adrenaline buzz that came with every adventure.

“You both would have been very impressed with Newkirk’s resourcefulness tonight,” Hogan said. “We had a close encounter with Wodarg, then we got back into his room and Newkirk got through every lock, but the documents were hidden. But guess who found them?” Hogan beamed. “He was in tip-top form tonight.”

“Yes, Sir, I’m eager to hear all about that, and I’m glad you’re back,” Kinch said. “I’ve been going over tomorrow’s transit plan with O’Keefe, and there’s something he urgently wants to discuss with you, Colonel.”

“Alright,” Hogan said, leaning into a post beside Kinch’s communications table. “How’s Osborne coming along? Will he be able to travel on that leg without support?”

“He seems to be doing pretty well, Sir,” Kinch replied. “Wilson got him all patched up. Osborne’s moving around more and he says he’s not worried.”

“Are you comfortable with that, O’Keefe?” Hogan asked. O’Keefe was the clear leader among three downed crew members and Hogan and Kinch had decided to put him in charge of the trio during their transfer to the coast.

O’Keefe nodded. “Osborne and Wandsworth were shaken up pretty badly, but they’re both doing fine now, Colonel ‘Ogan.” He paused, and then continued: “I’m wondering if we could take another man along with us, Sir.”

Another man? Why would another man be needed if they were ‘doing fine now,’ Hogan wondered. “Well, that’s not in the plan, but out of curiosity, who did you have in mind, Sergeant?” Hogan asked.

“Peter, sir. I’d like to take ‘im back with us. ‘E belongs at ‘ome,” O’Keefe said.

Hogan should have seen that coming. He could see that O’Keefe had a brotherly, maybe even fatherly, attitude toward Newkirk. Well, it was sometimes hard to think of someone as an adult when you had known him as a kid, he reminded himself. That explained why his mother called to remind him to wear galoshes on rainy days right up until his departure for England in 1940. And even then, she was on him to pack a raincoat.

“That’s thoughtful of you, Sergeant, but I don’t think London would agree to that, and neither would I. Newkirk is important to this operation. His place is here,” Hogan replied.

“But Colonel, a boy his age, Sir…”

Hogan cut him off abruptly. “His age doesn’t concern me. I know his abilities, and that’s enough.”

“Pardon me, but ’e’s younger than you think,” O’Keefe said.

“I know, Sergeant, you’ve established that, and I appreciate it,” Hogan said. “I’ll have a talk with him once we’re clear of this mission.”

“Not younger than you _thought_ , Sir. Younger than you _think_ ,” O’Keefe emphasized.

Hogan stopped cold. “What are you saying?”

Kinch jumped in. “You’re saying he’s younger than 20? That’s not possible.”

“I promise you gentlemen, it is possible, and ‘e is younger. I’ve known ‘im since ‘e was a little nipper and Peter is not 20 years old.”

“Exactly how old do you think he is?” Hogan snapped. “Ten? Twelve? This is crazy, Sergeant.”

“I’m not sure, but…” O’Keefe began.

“You’re not sure? Well, when’s his birthdate, then?” Hogan barked. It was late, and he was getting a gigantic headache with O’Keefe’s name on it. If O’Keefe was going to make accusations about one of his best men, he’d damned well better have the evidence to back it up.

“I haven’t memorized the exact time, date and year of ‘is birth, if that’s what you’re asking, Sir,” O’Keefe retorted. “With all respect, Sir, I’m going by memory.”

“That is precisely what I’m asking, Sergeant. Listen, I know you’re concerned for Newkirk, but we’ve established that he’s 20 and that’s old enough for him to be here. I don’t like that he went into the service when he was still a boy of 17, but that’s water under the bridge.”

“But that’s what I’m telling you, Colonel. It’s not water under the bridge. I don’t know ‘is precise age, but I do know ‘e’s younger than what ‘e’s telling you.”

“Exactly how do you know this, Sergeant?”

“I told you, I’ve known ‘im since ‘e was a nipper. Since ‘e was born, actually. ‘E was the first boy after seven girls, and as soon as the weather was fine, ‘those sisters were parading ‘im up and down the street in ‘is pram to show ‘im off. Mavis and Annie must have been about 13 and 12, and they’re close to my age.”

Hogan exhaled. “Alright, OK. And how old are you?”

“I’m about to be 31, Sir,” O’Keefe said.

“So you’re saying he might be 19. Big deal,” Hogan said.

“Or younger,” Kinch pointed out. “Do you really believe he could be younger?” he asked O’Keefe before cutting his eyes over to look at Hogan. He could read both exasperation and concern in his expression. Kinch turned back to O’Keefe. “Why would he lie about his age?” he asked.

“Why would Peter Newkirk lie?” O’Keefe spat out as if the answer was obvious. “It’s oxygen to ‘im. ‘E lies because ‘e’s thinks ‘e ‘as to do. Surely you know ‘e’s an accomplished liar,” O’Keefe said, waiting for a response. Both men nodded in acknowledgement. “He’s a scoundrel, and ‘e’ll say what ‘e ‘as to say to get what ‘e needs. And ‘e needed to join the RAF.”

“Why? Why did he need to join?” Hogan asked.

“Peter _needed_ to leave ‘ome,” O’Keefe said emphatically. “The old man wouldn’t give ‘im any peace.” He swallowed hard, then continued. “’E was done with school, ‘e needed to ‘elp ‘is family, and ‘e needed to do it by honest means, or ‘e was going to end up in a very bad place indeed.”

“Prison?” Hogan said.

“Not prison, Sir,” O’Keefe said. “’E was too young. ‘E was well on his way to Borstal, but ‘e wasn’t bleedin’ old enough for that either. He was in and out of approved schools by the time he was, oh, maybe 10.”

“What’s Borstal?” Hogan asked.

O’Keefe sighed. “It’s a place where they reform younger kids and try to keep them out of prison. You have to be 15. They send the little ones to approved schools, and ‘e was in one of those for a time, learning ‘is trade as a tailor when ‘e was quite young, just 10 or 11.”  
  
“Why?” Kinch said. “What had he done?”

“What ‘adn't ‘e done? I expect ’e was found in the company of thieves. That’s enough for them to pack a boy off. Or caught stealing, or just begging. Who knows?” O’Keefe sighed. “It was a big family, and a bad neighborhood, and ‘e fell into all sorts of mischief.”

“You don’t like him,” Hogan said.

“That is absolutely not true, Sir,” Martin said indignantly. “I know Peter, and deep inside he’s a good boy. But ‘e’s desperate. That lad’s been out on the streets begging and stealing since ‘e was old enough to button ‘is own shorts. ‘E could con you out of your wallet at five and punch you where it would leave you gasping for breath when ‘e was eight. There’s nothing ‘e ‘asn’t seen and very little ‘e asn’t done. E’s a kid who’s lived ‘arder than most men twice ‘is age.”  
  
Hogan was shaking his head, trying to absorb a completely new picture of the team’s pickpocket and safecracker. He didn’t look any younger than Carter, except when he took his shirt off and the nearly complete absence of chest hair became obvious. Or when he fell asleep an hour before anyone else, unable despite his best efforts to keep his eyes open. Or when he was waking up, surprisingly baby-faced with his hair tousled, his eyes wide, and his face still smooth.

“Does he know you’re telling me this?”

“Peter’s not thick. I told ‘im I would tell you if ‘e didn’t, and clearly, ‘e ‘asn’t. Colonel, please understand. I don’t’ wish ‘im any ‘arm. But no matter ‘ow ‘ard ‘e’s lived, a child deserves protection. Peter needs protection more than ‘e can understand. I’d like to take ‘im ‘ome to ‘is mum where ‘e belongs.”

Hogan looked at Kinch and tried to read his thoughts. He saw pain in his eyes. Kinch was as torn as he was.

“O’Keefe, I appreciate your concern. But you have to understand that Newkirk is one of my most valuable men. The operation would be gravely undermined without his, ah, particular, skills. If he’s of age to serve now, that’s enough for me,” Hogan said. “You’re a good friend to him to tell me this, but you must understand I can’t just send him home on the strength of your suspicions.”

O’Keefe shook his head wearily. “Of course not. It ‘as to be verified. If you straight-up asked ‘im, Sir, you might get an answer.”

“Or I might get a lie,” Hogan said, a tone of bitterness creeping into his voice until he pushed it away. “Yes, yes,” he sighed, “I’ll ask him. Finish what you’re doing here and meet me in my quarters in five minutes,” he said.

XXX

A sleepy-eyed Newkirk was sitting at the work table in Colonel Hogan’s quarters, waiting for an explanation. He had already been to bed, and had pulled his RAF greatcoat on over his nightshirt when Hogan roused him. His stockinged feet were tapping nervously on the front stretcher of his chair while Hogan busied himself with paperwork.

“Who are we w-w-w-waiting for, Sir?” Newkirk inquired.

“Kinch is on his way up,” Hogan said with a tight smile. Tousled and dressed in his night clothes, Newkirk looked as nervous as a schoolboy—and, Hogan realized, not much older, as he sat in the soft light of a dim bulb.

“When’s the last time you shaved?” Hogan asked.

Newkirk brushed a hand across his face at the unexpected question. “Ahh, not today, Sir. Mmmmust have been yesterday. I shall be sure to do it tomorrow, Sir. I know we have to be presentable on p-p-parade.”

“Hmm,” Hogan said. “Only if you need to. Razors are in short supply and we wouldn’t want to use them unnecessarily.”

“Yes, Sir,” Newkirk said, feeling knocked off center just as O’Keefe and Kinch came through the door.

Kinch came and draped an arm around Newkirk, and stood beside him. Hogan waved O’Keefe into the other seat, and stood between him and Newkirk.

“Good work on the mission tonight, Newkirk,” Hogan began. “I was telling Kinch you were very resourceful. It wouldn’t have been successful without you.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Newkirk replied. He looked puzzled. Surely Hogan hadn’t awakened him to congratulate him again. And why was O’Keefe here?

“O’Keefe has an interesting proposition for you, Newkirk,” Hogan continued. “If it’s something you want to do, I can make it happen. You’ve earned it.”

Newkirk squinted his eyes and looked at O’Keefe in confusion. “What? Wh-what proposition?”

“We’re leaving tomorrow night, and I’d like you to come with us,” O’Keefe said.

Newkirk reeled, his jaw open for a moment. Then he snapped it shut and pasted on a smile. “I’m dead chuffed to b-be asked, Martin, and if the Colonel agrees, I c-can get you p-p-part of the way there,” Newkirk replied. “B-b-but usually the Underground handles transfers to the c-c-c-coast,” he said. “Right, Sir?”

“Right,” Hogan said. “But O’Keefe had a different idea.”

“I want to get you ‘ome, Peter. To your mum,” O’Keefe said.

“Why would I agree to a st-st-stupid thing like that?” Newkirk said angrily. “My j-j-job is right here. I’m not escaping until we’re all liberated. That’s how it works.”

“I think you know why I’m asking,” O’Keefe said softly. “Stop larking about. It’s over.”

“What’s over, Martin?” Newkirk was turning pink and his voice was shaking. “What are you on about?”

“Newkirk… Peter,” Hogan said in a gentle tone. “Peter, how old are you?”

Hogan never used his first name—not ever. The shake in Newkirk’s voice had suddenly found its way to his lip, which was quivering. His mouth was hanging open as he tried to get the words. “I t-t-t-t-t-t,” he said. “I t-t-t-t-t-t-t-told you. I’m tw, I’m tw, I’m tw…”

“I know what you said—that you’re 20. But Peter, did you tell me the truth?” Hogan’s head was bent down now as he leaned into Newkirk, trying to look him in the eye. Newkirk wasn’t cooperating. “Because O’Keefe tells me he thinks you’re younger. Are you younger, Peter?”

“He’s thinking of Neddie, my little brother,” Newkirk said frantically, his eyes beseeching O’Keefe for help. “Aren’t you, Martin? You’re mixing me up with the little lads.”

“No, Peter. I’m not thinking of Neddie or Georgie. I’m thinking of you. I’ve known you your whole life and I don’t think you’re 18 yet,” O’Keefe said.

“Am too,” Newkirk said stubbornly.

“Peter…” O’Keefe began.

“No! Get out! Get out! Get out!” Newkirk yelled. “You’re lying! You know you’re lying!” He was shaking all over, quaking with anger and fear.

Hogan nodded. “Alright. O’Keefe, you can head back down. Kinch will show you how to operate the entrance.” Kinch leaned in to tighten his grip around Newkirk’s shoulder as he stood to leave.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” O’Keefe said to Newkirk. “It’ll be alright, Peter, you’ll see.”

“You’re a liar!” Newkirk thundered at him. “Why w-would you do this to me?”

Hogan could see Newkirk was hanging by a thread as the other men departed. He was clutching himself tightly and shaking. His head was down and his lip was trembling. He was mumbling.

“I can’t go back. I can’t go back,” he said.

“Shhh,” Hogan said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He didn’t like having him perched there on a chair. “Steady, now. Let’s sit over here,” he said, leading him the bottom bunk. Hogan was pulling up a stool when there was a light rap at the door. It was LeBeau.

“Kinch said you might need me,” LeBeau said as he slipped into the room. He moved closer and saw Newkirk shaking and talking to himself. His right hand was loosely fisted and pressed under his nose, and the top knuckle of his thumb was worrying the corner of his mouth.

“Is something wrong with Newkirk? Pierre, are you alright?” LeBeau sat beside him on the bunk and rested a hand on his back.

“Peter was about to tell me how old he is,” Hogan said. “How old he really is. I won’t be angry, Peter,” he added softly. “But I need to know.”

“I can’t go back there. You can’t send me back, Sir. Please, no, Sir.” He was trying hard not to cry, but his face was wet anyway. “Please let me stay,” he whimpered. “Please, Sir, I’ll do anything.”

“Just tell me the truth,” Hogan coaxed. “No more lies. We can trust each other if you tell me the truth.”

Newkirk looked up for the first time—first at LeBeau, who had been his closest friend since he first arrived in this stinking hole two years earlier, then to Hogan, who had made him feel like he was somebody who mattered. Apart from his sister Mavis, there was no one in the world he trusted more.

“I’m not 20 yet,” Newkirk admitted as tears fell faster. “I’m, um, I’m, um…” Finally he whispered it. “Seventeen. And a quarter. Please don’t send me back. I want to stay with you.”

“Mon Dieu,” LeBeau said softly. He tightened his grip on Newkirk as the boy collapsed into his arms, his chest heaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. I know. I know, but you're thinking about the actor. I'm thinking about the character. So just for now, let's try to separate the two. Willing suspension of disbelief, as it's called. This is an alternative reading on the character, as I noted at the very beginning. I thought Valashu's head canon on this was really interesting so I decided to give it a try! I hope you'll stay along for the ride.


	9. Bargaining

His world was crashing in. Years of carefully crafting and maintaining a lie—years of always trying to look stronger, act tougher and care less—had just caught up with him. Everyone he cared about at home already knew Peter Newkirk was a bad boy and a worse liar. Now the best mates he’d ever had knew it too, and he was terrified.

LeBeau had held him through illness, injuries, pain and tears before, but never in front of anyone. Colonel Hogan had never, ever, ever seen him cry, and that was the way Newkirk wanted it to stay. Now his tears were flowing, bathing him in shame that was even deeper than his fear and uncertainty. What was going to happen to him? And what was wrong with him?

He wasn’t a child, Newkirk told himself. He’d not been a child for many years. He didn’t care what the numbers said, because he was a man. He was taking care of people the way a man should do.

He was going to stop crying right now and tell Colonel Hogan that he wasn’t leaving because he had responsibilities. He’d worked too hard and it wasn’t fair. Not fair, not fair.

At least he was going to do that until he heard the Colonel exclaim “God damn it!” and slam his fist on the desk. Then the door slammed, and Newkirk flinched and burrowed himself deeper into LeBeau’s arms, remembering the very same exclamation and the smack that often accompanied it years ago. He knew he was in big, big trouble.

XXX

LeBeau was surprised, and yet he was not shocked. Everyone else saw Peter’s tough shell; he alone saw beyond it and knew there was someone much more vulnerable inside. Seventeen? He was not yet fifteen when they met? Mon Dieu, how had he survived? What made him so brave? 

He had held him before, so many times, in the dark of the cooler and in the days before Colonel Hogan had arrived and given them all a sense of purpose. He had nursed him through illnesses. He sometimes wondered if he was younger than he let on, and now he knew his suspicions were right. But he had never imagined he could be so young, and suddenly he was not merely a friend whose welfare mattered to him. He was a frightened little boy, sobbing in his arms. He was a child who needed him.

XXX

Hogan wasn’t angry at Newkirk. He was not. He was angry at this damned war. He was angry at the RAF for letting a colossal mistake slip past them. He was angry at poverty and desperation. He was angry at himself for not detecting that one of his men was living a lie. The sight of that man--that boy--crying left Hogan feeling overwhelmed, and Hogan made it a point never to feel overwhelmed. But he didn't know how to fix it, and he couldn't just stay and watch. 

He stormed into the communications hut where Kinch was standing by for any final transmissions. He looked at Kinch and shook his head. “We have a big problem,” he said.

XXX

Kinch had anticipated what needed to happen next. He had sent a confidential message to a contact asking for a search of birth records in the General Register Office for England and Wales. 1923 to 1925, he said. Peter Newkirk, born in London, probably on December 22 unless he was lying about that too. See what you turn up.

“I’ve got someone working to verify his birthdate,” Kinch said as Hogan entered the hut. But from the look of turmoil on Hogan’s face, that was the least of their worries.

“Seventeen, Kinch. He admits he’s seventeen,” Hogan said. “He’s a child.” He spat the words out. “We’re going to have to tell London.”

“Sir, let me get the birth record first and verify it. He can’t leave with O’Keefe—not until we’ve sorted this out.”

“And not until we’ve figured out how to avoid an escape that blemishes Klink’s perfect record,” Hogan said. “Or until we’ve figured out how to replace him. Damn it, I can’t imagine anyone being as good at the job. But he can’t stay. We can’t…” he shook his head, searching for the words. “God, Kinch, he’s a kid.”

“Yes Sir. A kid who went through basic training, fought at Dunkirk, survived in a POW camp and has performed exceptionally on mission after mission. He’s no ordinary kid. He’s got brass balls,” Kinch said.

“All true,” Hogan said. “But it’s unconscionable to put him in danger. Even if he stays, we can’t use him. We’ve got to protect him.”

“How did you get it out of him, Sir?”

“I asked, and he finally answered. Said he was seventeen—and a quarter,” Hogan said with a gruff laugh. “You know how important those quarter and half years are when you’re little,” he said angrily. “I left him in my room with LeBeau, crying his eyes out.”

“He’s probably scared stiff, Colonel. You’re going to have to talk with him.”

“I don’t know how to deal with a crying child, Kinch,” Hogan snapped. “West Point doesn’t prepare you for this.”

“Sir, he’s still Newkirk. That hasn’t changed,” Kinch said. “We can go together if that would help.”

Hogan nodded. Yes, it was time for a conversation. There were some things he needed to understand about his boy soldier.

XXX

Newkirk was lying on the bottom bunk with LeBeau at his side, hovering over him and rubbing his stomach, when Colonel Hogan and Kinch arrived back. Both hands were under his nose, both thumbs stroking at the corners of his mouth. He was clenched tight with fear.

“Can you sit up, Peter?” Hogan asked gently. Newkirk complied, and Hogan sat across from him while Kinch crouched beside him.

“This is a lot to take in, Peter,” Hogan began. “If I had any idea you were this young, I would never have put you in harm’s way on a mission.”

Newkirk couldn’t answer, but with a helping hand from Kinch, he lowered his hands into his lap. “Take a deep breath,” Kinch said softly. He lit a cigarette and handed it to him. Newkirk accepted it hungrily.

“Kinch, I’m not sure he should…” LeBeau began.

“No! Stop! I’ve been sm-smoking since I was 12,” Newkirk protested. He wasn’t about to give up his cigarettes.

“It’s all right,” Hogan said. “Peter…”

“Can’t you call me Newkirk, Sir? You always call me Newkirk.”

Hogan let out a sigh. “Peter… “

“I’m sorry I disappointed you, Sir, but I d-d-d-don’t want to go. I c-can’t go home,” Newkirk said in a rush of words. “I know you think I’m a kid, but I’m not. I’m not really.”

“Peter, I know how brave you are. You’ve never let me down on a mission. But the law says you’re a child, and it’s not ethical for children to fight in wars. I have to speak with London to decide how to proceed. It’s not up to me.”

“You d-d-d-don’t have to tell them, Gov. I’ll be 18 in nine mmmonths, and then it won’t matter anymore,” Newkirk pleaded. “Please, Sir, I don’t want to leave my mmmates. I’ll do anything you say, but I want to stay.”

“I do have to tell them, Peter,” Hogan said.

“Newkirk,” Newkirk insisted.

“Peter. Don’t argue with me on that,” Hogan said. “I have to remind myself that you’re not who I thought you were.”

“But I am, Sir! I’m still me! I haven’t changed!” Newkirk insisted, tears springing to his eyes again.

“No,” Hogan said. “But I have.” He patted the young soldier on the knee and rose to leave. "LeBeau, get him to sleep. He can stay here."


	10. But How?

Morning dawned, and Newkirk woke up with his eyes burning. He looked up, saw a bunk above him and frowned. This was not his bunk. Where was he? Then he remembered. He was in Colonel Hogan’s quarters. But where was LeBeau? He remembered LeBeau helping him sip at a drink and then singing softly as he held his hand—and then nothing.

He sat up, his head aching. He could hear voices, but they weren’t in the barracks. They were muffled voices. They were outside. Why was he inside if everyone was out?

He checked his watch. It was 8 A.M. Rollcall had started an hour earlier. How had he missed it?

Suddenly he heard a door creak open and feet shuffling into the barracks. Then the door to Colonel Hogan’s quarters flew open. It was the Colonel, with LeBeau trailing behind him.

“How, how did I miss rollcall?” Newkirk asked anxiously.

“We let you sleep through it,” Hogan said simply as he took a seat by the bunk. “I thought you could use the rest.”

“But I can’t miss rollcall,” Newkirk insisted. “Why didn’t I wake up?”

Hogan and LeBeau exchanged a look.

“I gave you something to help you sleep, Perrin,” LeBeau said. “It’s alright now. You’re awake now and you look…”

“Y-y-you knocked me out?” Newkirk interrupted. “Bloody hell, LeBeau, why?” His face spoke of betrayal, but as soon as the words were out, he gulped and looked down. He was so ashamed. Ashamed to have lied. Ashamed to have cried. Ashamed to be seen for what he was—a stupid, stupid boy who couldn’t be trusted and no longer belonged.

He could feel their stares, and his shame gave way to anger. “I need to use the latrine. Am I allowed to do that on my own, or do I need a nanny to take me?” Newkirk snapped.

“Go ahead,” Hogan said with a flick of his head. “But if you run into Schultz, make sure to tell him you’re still sick with a fever.”

“I don’t have a bleedin’ fever,” Newkirk snarled as he got himself up and pulled on his clothes and boots. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m the same person I was yesterday.” He huffed out of the room.

“Do you want me to go after him, Mon Colonel? He won’t like it, but he won’t fight me either.”

“No,” Hogan said, sounding frustrated. “Give him a little space. But wait outside to make sure he actually comes back. If it takes him longer than five minutes, go after him.”

XXX

Newkirk kicked a rock along on his way to the latrine. His head was down and his jaw was set. He took care of his immediate needs and returned to the barracks in the same frame of mind, smoke practically pouring from his ears. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was stupid, stupid, stupid. And now everytone thought he was a baby.

He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice when Carter fell into stride alongside him.

“Hey, Newkirk!” Carter said. “I didn’t think you’d be up. The Colonel said you had a fever. I guess that’s why you weren’t in your bunk this morning, huh?”

Newkirk looked over at him in mild astonishment, mainly at the fact that he was so cheerful. He was so deep in his own gloom that he’d failed to notice the sun was shining. Spring was awakening.

“I fffffeel fine now, Carter,” Newkirk said. “Colonel Hogan’s being a ruddy nanny. I’m to go back and lie down in his bleedin’ quarters until he and LeBeau decide I’m well enough to venture out, but at least they let me go to the loo.”

“I hate being sick,” Carter said. “You’ve been so busy on missions late at night that it makes sense you’d catch something. My mom always says there’s nothing more important than a good night’s sleep. If you keep missing sleep night after night, you’re bound to feel it.”

Carter kept nattering, and Newkirk couldn’t help but feel relieved. It was a sign of normal in a day that was shaping up to be anything but. He wondered how many people knew his secret. He wasn’t sure he could stand it if the word got out. He chewed on his lip and continued ruminating as they walked back to the barracks.

Then he felt a hand on his arm. It was Carter, stopping him in his tracks. He led him to the side of a Barracks 11. “Newkirk are you really OK? Because you look really sad. Did something happen?”

Newkirk sighed as he looked at Carter. Those bloody eyes of his. So trusting. He was a good friend, even if he was bloody annoying sometimes. Who was he kidding? Carter was going find out, and probably soon. He’d rather be the one to tell him.

“Yes, something happened,” Newkirk replied. “Andrew, can you keep a secret? A really big secret?”

“Of course I can,” Carter replied, crossing his heart. “As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. But are you sure you want to tell anyone? You know, my dad always said a secret’s a secret until you make someone promise not to tell.”

“What the bloody hell does that mean?” Newkirk replied. “A sssecret’s a secret until you blab when you promised you wouldn’t. And you have to promise.”

“Alright, tell me,” Carter said. “You can trust me.”

Newkirk took a deep breath, the kind that would feel cleansing if he didn’t like such a horrible person. “I’m underage,” he said.

“I know, Newkirk. Kinch explained it to me last night. He said you admitted you were only 20. Gee whiz, you shouldn’t lie like that, but I’ll bet you had your reasons.”

“No. I’m really underage,” Newkirk said. “I’m ssseventeen. And three months.”

Carter looked at Newkirk, then sputtered out a laugh. “Oh, that’s a good one, Newkirk. You sure can keep a straight face. Boy, are you ever pulling my leg. My baby brother’s older than that.”

Newkirk stood there, head down, biting his lip, arms crossed. He raised his head and his eyes met Carter’s. “Wait a minute. You’re not kidding?” Carter said.

“No. I’m done lying. I’m telling the truth,” Newkirk said. “I think the Colonel’s trying to find a way to send me home.” He walked off.

Carter was behind him, grabbing his arm. “Hold up, hold up. If you’re…”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“ _that_ young, how did you even get into the RAF? I mean you must have been…”

“Fourteen. I know. I went into the recruiting center and they asked my age. I didn’t look like much, but I’d had a growth spurt and… well, I was taller than LeBeau!” At that moment, LeBeau had fallen in with them, and Newkirk gave him a tight smile.

“Height isn’t exactly the only thing they look at, Newkirk,” Carter insisted. “Were you completely, you know… adult? I mean, there’s kind of a difference between a fourteen-year-old boy and a grown man.”

“No, not really. But they didn’t check very closely in that department, did they? I was about 5 foot 5, I wasn't the scrawniest chap there, and I could p-pass for a bit older if I sucked me cheeks in and didn’t smile too much, so I th-thought I’d try. I’d put some blacking on me cheeks to make it look like stubble, like they do in the theater. And the Sergeant said ‘How old are you?’ and I said, ‘Nineteen, Sir.’ Because I thought if I’d said eighteen he’d know right off I was fffibbing. Then he said, ‘How old are you really?’ Well, I answered him, almost honestly. ‘Fff, fffifteen, Sir,’ I said, because that’s what age I would have been that year, 1940.”

“And they took you anyway?” Carter asked in amazement.

“No. He sent me packing. He said, ‘You listen here. Take a long walk down that road, and when you come back, you’ll be nineteen. Got it?’ So I took a walk, and when I got back, he asked me the same qu-questions. Only this time when he said ‘How old are you really?’ I stuck to my story and said I was nineteen. So he p-put me through.”

He shrugged and continued along, his two best mates at his side. “It wasn’t hard, really.”


	11. The Plea

When Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau returned to the barracks, Colonel Hogan was not there. “Down below,” Garlotti said when LeBeau inquired. “He said he wouldn’t be long.”

Newkirk sat glumly at the table and lit a cigarette as LeBeau poured coffee for all of them.

“He’s probably t-t-t-t-talking to London about mmme,” he whispered to LeBeau.

“That may be, mon pote,” LeBeau said. “I’m sorry, but you know there are certain decisions he cannot make alone.”

“B-b-b-b-but nothing has changed,” Newkirk hissed. “I’m exactly who I was yesterday.” He bit his lip. “I’m g-g-g-g-going to tell him w-why it’s wrong to”—his voice dropped back to the barest whisper—“ssssend me away.”

“I’m sure he will listen, Perrin,” LeBeau said.

“Why are you calling me that?” Newkirk inquired as he got up and rummaged around his footlocker. He extracted a sheet of paper and a pencil and sat back down.

“It’s a nickname for Pierre,” LeBeau said, adding to himself, _It’s what we called my cousin Jean-Pierre when he was a child_.

“Well, c-c-c-call me N-N-N-N-Newkirk, would you?” Newkirk said, sounding peeved. “That’s the proper thing to do.” He started scratching on the paper.

“You are writing to him?” LeBeau asked.

“Yes,” Newkirk replied. He looked up and rolled his eyes. “In case it’s ha-ha-ha-hard to say it,” he explained.

“That’s a great idea,” said Carter, who had been sitting silently the entire time. “Sometimes when you put your ideas down on paper, they can become clearer to you.”

“Things are already clear to me,” Newkirk declared. “I’m st-st-staying.” He looked up, realizing he’d said that a bit loudly, but no one but LeBeau and Carter was paying attention to him.

XXX

Fifteen minutes later, Newkirk was finishing up his work just as Colonel Hogan arrived back in the barracks room. The smile he gave to his men was more like a grimace, and as he passed the table, he stopped to run a hand over Newkirk’s back. He patted it, then bent down.

“Come see me in my office in ten minutes,” he said. “We need to talk more.”

“What about my mmmmm…” As Newkirk struggled to say the word, he gestured with his head to LeBeau and Carter.

“Yes, you can bring your mates,” Hogan said with an indulgent smile. That might be easier for everyone, he thought.

“Righto, Gov. And Sir, this is for you,” Newkirk said. He pressed his letter into Colonel Hogan’s hand. “Promise to read it?”

“Of course, I promise,” Hogan replied, smiling softly at Newkirk’s earnestness. He took the letter, stepped into his office, and closed the door.

XXX

Inside his office, Hogan took a seat at his table and rested his forehead in his hand. The dull throb of a headache reminded him that he had barely slept. His initial conversation with London had been an adventure in bureaucracy. He could see it was going to take a few attempts to get through to the right officers who could make decisions.

He unfolded the sheet of paper Peter had slipped into his hand. My God, his spelling was atrocious. Hogan knew that despite his obvious intelligence, Peter’s formal education had been far from adequate, and it showed.

_Dear Colonel Hogan,_

_I know you are very angery that I lied. I am sorry. I don’t want you to send me Home and I am giving you five raesons I shold not go back to London._

  1. _I done every thing an airman is suppose to do such as basic training and I earnt my stripes._
  2. _I faught bravely at Dunkirk._
  3. _Nobody else can do my Job and I need the Job to provide for my family because I have a repsonsiblitly._
  4. _London is more dangeress than here becase of German Boms falling. So if you want me dead, send me Home._
  5. _The most important thing is I will be old enough soon and you won’t have to wirry any more that I am under age. You always tell me to be clam and pashant and Now I am asking you to be clam and pashant and wait. It won’t be long._



_I said five, but there is a sixth reason that probly doesn’t mater to London but it maters to me. All my friends are here and being with them teaches me to be a beter man. Also, my dad will hurt me and you won’t, so that’s seven._

_Please ask London if I can stay here with you. If you ask my mum I think she will say yes._

_Sincrerely,_

_Peter Newkirk, Cpl., Royal Air Force_

_PS please burn this letter so the Krauts don’t get it. Thank you from **NEWKIRK.**_

The last word was underlined several times. Hogan squinted and pondered the letter again. _Be clam and pashant_? What? _Oh, calm and patient_, he laughed to himself as recognition finally sparked. Yes. He would be as “clam” as possible, but he wasn’t convinced it was going to help once the right people at Allied High Command had all the facts.

As he thought about what to do next, his eyes lingered on one sentence: “My dad will hurt me and you won’t.” He sucked in air and pushed it out hard. What was that all about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a student in an "approved school" (which Americans call a reform school) from the age of 10 onward, Newkirk’s academic education would have been severely limited. About three hours a day would have been spent on reading, writing, spelling, arithmetic, history, geography, science, religion and fitness. Six hours a day would have been devoted to his trade of tailoring. Boys in these schools began by sewing all the clothes worn by all the students. Even if he was one of the brightest students--which I think he was--he still would have been weak in alot of skills, such as spelling.


	12. Motivation

After a time, Hogan popped his head out of his office and gestured to Newkirk, who was in mid-conversation with LeBeau and Carter.

Newkirk stood and looked at LeBeau with a plea in his eyes. “Come with me, Louis?” he asked. “You too, Carter—the Colonel said it wwwwwould be alright.” So the trio trooped into Hogan’s office, where they were joined a few moments later by Kinch.

Looking downcast, Newkirk sat at the table, anxiously picking at the cuticles of his fingers. Newkirk looked up in surprise as LeBeau grabbed his hand. “Easy, mon pote, you’re going to make them bleed,” he said. Newkirk sighed and started fiddling with the cuffs on his pullover instead. 

“Alright gentlemen,” Hogan began. “We’ve got a bit of a situation here.” He dropped a hand on Newkirk’s shoulder as he often did, but this time he met resistance as Newkirk twisted to shake it off. The Corporal had his eyes down and was avoiding looking straight at Hogan. Undeterred, Hogan wrapped an arm around Newkirk’s shoulders, practically daring him to try and break free. He could feel the air going out of the young Corporal. He didn’t exactly relax, but he seemed to surrender to Hogan’s touch.

“Kinch has confirmed your date of birth with the General Register Office, and it is…”

“December 22, 1925. I know,” Newkirk said bitterly.

Hogan shook his head in dismay. “I don’t know how you pulled this off, Peter, but you’ve been fooling a lot of people for three years now. And as of now, that has to stop. We need to know the truth about what you did and why you did it.” He looked up at the other men. “At the same time, we don’t need to spread this information around. I don’t think I need to tell anyone of you that Peter would have a hard time with certain people in this camp if they knew how old he was. So this stays among the five of us—got it?”

“Of course, Sir,” Kinch said. “That was never a question.” LeBeau and Carter nodded.

“Th-th-th-thank you, Sir,” Newkirk stammered. Hogan gripped his shoulder a little tighter at that.

“Now, Peter, you need to understand I’m disappointed in you, because you lied to my face and told me you were twenty.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Newkirk said, choking off a sob. He pursed his lips hard to try to regain his composure. “I never, ever w-w-w-wanted to disappoint you, Colonel. Nor any of you.” He looked up. “What’s going to happen to me? Am I going to the glasshouse? Or Borstal?”

Carter, LeBeau and Kinch looked puzzled, but Hogan knew what he meant. The military prison at Aldershot was a frightening place, and the prospect of a youth detention center wasn’t much better.

“No, Peter,” Hogan said. “It’s not my decision, obviously, but I can’t imagine the RAF would do that, and I would do everything in my power to keep you out of detention. You’ve served with distinction. The only issue anyone is concerned about is your age.”

“Can’t you try to k-k-keep me here, Sir? I don’t want to go back. You can punish me as hard as you want, even cane me if you have to. I’ll take it, and I’ll do any jobs you give me. I’ll be the laundry boy, or handle the slops, or clean up the barracks or …”

“Peter, calm down,” Hogan said. “Nobody is going to punish you, and I’m certainly not going to cane you.” LeBeau reached over and took Newkirk by the arm in an attempt to settle him.

“What if, what if I was your batman, Sir?” Newkirk continued eagerly. “I already keep your uniform ironed and mended, but I could be your valet. I could do that for everyone if you wanted. I could be a r-runner and d-d-do anything you d-d-don’t want to do. I could ffffetch all your meals and k-keep your quarters clean and tidy and get hot water for your shave and…” He was breathing hard and looking for a sign of hope from Hogan. But the Colonel remained silent, and Newkirk, realizing he was getting nowhere, simply crumpled. Dropping his elbows to the table, he pressed his face into his hands.

“I want to stay here with you,” he cried. “Don’t make me go. It’s not fair. I’m a good airman, I am.”

Out of habit, LeBeau started to wrap himself around Newkirk, but Hogan nudged him away. He pulled the young Corporal to his chest.

“You’re a very good airman,” Hogan said, soothing the young man by running a hand over his head, neck and shoulders. “Everybody knows that.”

Newkirk mumbled into his chest, “Am I going back with O’Keefe, then?”

“No,” Hogan admitted. “We haven’t been able to get direction from London about what to do. And obviously, you know we have Klink’s perfect record to consider. So you can’t just disappear overnight.”

“Alright,” Newkirk said, straightening up and hiccupping. “I don’t have to go yet?”

“Not yet, Peter,” Hogan replied. “For at least a few days, it will be business as usual, except that I need you to stand down from any missions.” Newkirk started to protest, but Hogan cut him off. “Peter, I can’t in good conscience put you in danger. You have to understand.”

“Can I still help?” Newkirk asked. “You need me for the uniforms, d-d-d-don’t you, Sir?”

Hogan smiled. “You can still handle the uniforms, Peter. And you can be my runner, OK? If I need anyone to take a message to someone in camp, I’ll count on you.”

“I can, I can help LeBeau peel and cut vegetables, too, and if something needs pinching from the kitchens…”

“No, no, no,” Hogan interrupted. “Yes, you can help LeBeau, but no stealing. If you get caught…”

“I won’t get caught, Sir!” Newkirk objected.

“I can’t let you take the risk, Peter,” Hogan said firmly.

“Newkirk! It’s Newkirk! Why do you have to keep calling me Peter when you know perfectly well I’m Newkirk? I hate that! Can’t you stop it?”

A day earlier, if Corporal Newkirk had shouted at Colonel Hogan so defiantly, the consequences would have been swift. But at this moment, Hogan realized he wasn’t dealing with an adult. He was witnessing raw fear and anger from boy whose world had just shifted under this feet. His heart was breaking for that boy, but he wasn’t sure how to respond.

Suddenly Carter stepped in. “Hey, buddy, you’re yelling at the Colonel. I know that’s not the kind of airman you are.” He paused as Newkirk struggled to get control of himself. “Nobody knows what you’re thinking or feeling unless you tell them, so maybe you could just tell Colonel Hogan what’s on your mind when he calls you Peter.”

Newkirk gulped, but eventually got the words out. “It m-m-makes me feel different from everyone else. It ffffeels like I’m not really an airman anymore, but I am. I w-w-w-worked hard and did all the things that I was required to do.”

“Just like you said in your letter,” Hogan said softly.

“Yes, Sir,” Newkirk replied. “The G-Germans captured me and I didn’t break. The G-G-G-Gestapo interrogated me and I didn’t give ‘em n-n-nothing. I’m not some w-weak llllll, lllllittle boy,” he said, wiping his eyes angrily. “And I d-don’t want everyone to hear you suddenly calling me P-P-P-P,” he began. Saying his name could be so damned hard. “P-P-P-P-Peter,” he finished. “Because they’ll all wwwwonder wwwwhy and st-st-start asking questions.”

“Fair enough,” Hogan said. “I’ll give that some thought, and I’ll be careful not to call you Peter in front of the other men, alright?”

“Yes, Sir, that’s fair,” Newkirk replied.

"Isn't there something else you want to say, Newkirk?" Carter asked. He looked directly into Newkirk's eyes and tipped his head toward the Colonel.

Newkirk looked at him, not comprehending. Then he understood, and his mouth quivered. "I'm, I'm, I'm very sorry, Sir. I shouldn't have spoken to you that way," he said, fighting back tears again. Peter Newkirk never cried if he could help it, and this was getting bloody tiresome. 

"I understand, and I accept your apology," Hogan said. "But now, I need you to explain something to me, Corporal. Why don’t you want to go home?”

“I need to earn a living, Sir. What would I go back to?”

“You’d go back to your family, Pierre,” LeBeau said. “Your _Maman_. I know you miss her.”

“Of course I mmmmiss her. I wouldn’t be human if it I didn’t mmmmiss her. But you miss your mum too, Louis. That d-d-doesn’t mean you’re ready to shirk your rrrrresponsibilities and run home to P-Paris,” Newkirk sniped. “I signed up for this war. I’m trained to fight. I plan to stay.”

“Oh, you do?” LeBeau replied with the kind of smirk only a Frenchman could muster. “It may not be your decision, mon petit,” he added softly.

“I am NOT your ‘petit,’ and I bloody well know I don’t get to make decisions. You’ve all made that quite clear!” Newkirk roared. He settled his voice a bit. “That’s why I’m asking Colonel Hogan to let me stay.”

“It may not be my decision either,” Hogan said. “I’m sorry, but there are some times when we have to go through channels.”

“Of all the bleeding times you decide to play by the rules, you have to choose now?” Newkirk growled.

“Watch it, young man,” Hogan replied sharply. “I’m still your commanding officer. The mature Peter Newkirk I know would address me with respect.”

“Yes, Sir,” Newkirk said miserably. “Sorry, Sir. I’m j-j-just so bloody…”

“Frustrated. Angry. Scared. I know,” Hogan said in a kind tone. “Me too.”

“You’re not scared, Sir. You’re never scared,” Newkirk said in amazement.

“You go right on believing that,” Hogan mumbled. “Can you just explain to me why you did it? Why you joined up when you were so young?”

“L-l-like I told Andrew and Louis, I need a job, Sir,” Newkirk said. He recounted the recruiting office story he’d told barely an hour earlier to his friends.

“Unbelievable,” Hogan said when Newkirk concluded. “Irresponsible of them not to check. But why, Peter?”

“I could have gone in the Royal Navy at fifteen and a half, Sir, but I didn’t want to be out there on a big ocean and the jobs were stupid anyway,” Newkirk said. “Mostly wwwwaiting tables. And the Army would have ssssent me into the infantry and I’d have been d-d-d-dead by now. B-b-but you see, when I was 12, I was traveling with the cir-cir-circus, and we were in Lincolnshire. And all these ffffamilies came to see us p-perform one afternoon from RAF Cranwell, and we got to chatting afterwards and letting their k-kids feed the horses. The next day, when we were off, they came back and invited me and two other b-b-b-boys back to the base to show us the airplanes. Although I think they mainly wanted to feed us a proper meal, because they fattened us up that evening.”

“I’ve been to Cranwell. That’s the flying school,” Hogan said, a small smile forming around his lips. He couldn’t help but notice that as Newkirk got caught up in his story, the stammer was much less pronounced.

“Yes, Colonel,” Newkirk said. Now his eyes were growing wide with excitement. “Th-th-they let us climb on a Hawker Hurricane and sit in the pilot’s seat, and they showed us sk-sk-sk-sk…, um, drawings, of something they said would be even better, a Spitfire. And they played fffootball with us and gave us food and then took us back. And then when the war had started and I saw a Spitfire in the air above London, I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to be like them. They were very k-k-kind, Sir.”

“I can certainly see that, Peter. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you need to join up at all? You were 14. You were still in school.”

“Oh, no, Sir. I hadn’t been in school for almost a year. I was… well, you know, away for a time, and when I came back I was too far behind my classmates to do the work and they put me with the younger kids, so I j-j-just stopped attending school. Good j-job too, because that was one less group of people to smack me about the head every time I st-st-st-st-stammered, Sir.”

Hogan registered that painful detail, but pressed on. “Why did you need to join up?”

“Fffffor food and clothes and a b-bed, Sir,” Newkirk said as if it was the most obvious explanation in the world.

“You had those at home, Peter,” Hogan said.

Newkirk scoffed, then sobered up. “If you say so, Sir,” he answered politely.

“Didn’t you?”

Newkirk sighed and tipped his head. “Not, not, not really, Sir. My dad was gone, and my mum couldn’t support us all. I made what clothes I could for me and my brothers and I got what food I could by prowling around in the mornings, but we were c-c-cold and hungry a lot. And Georgie kept wwwetting the bed that him and Ned and me shared, so I mostly slept on the floor. And we needed m-m-money to help Nora.”

“Who’s Nora?”

“My sister, the next older from me.” He reached into his jacket and pulled a picture out of his pocket. It was a younger Newkirk with two girls, one not much older and the other a good decade older. “That’s Nora, right there, and that’s Mavis. With me, the sumer before I went into the RAF. She’s 19 now, Nora is,” Newkirk said proudly, his face softening as he gazed at the photo of his sisters.

Hogan looked at the picture and nearly gasped. This was right before Newkirk went in the RAF? He was unmistakably a child, still dressed in shorts. Hogan's blood boiled at the thought that any recruiting sergeant would have allowed this boy—this little boy—to slip through.

Newkirk must have noticed his expression, because he added, “I, I, I was still thirteen in the photograph. I got quite a b-b-bit taller that autumn when the war started, Sir.”

Hogan nodded. The digressions were taking time, but Hogan knew he needed be gentle as he prodded Newkirk along. “What are you doing to help Nora, Peter?” he asked softly.

“My w-w-wages go to buy her what she needs,” Newkirk replied cryptically. He looked about anxiously.

“What is it she needs?” Hogan pressed.

Newkirk hung his head for a moment, then looked Hogan straight in the eye, sizing him up. He decided to answer and plowed ahead.

“It’s called insulin, Sir. She, she, she has to take shots of it every day to stay alive.”


	13. A Reconcilitation

“I didn’t know about his sister, did you, Sir?” Kinch asked as he and Colonel Hogan dropped down into the tunnel.

“I had no idea,” Hogan said, walking alongside his second in command as they headed for the communications hut. “Diabetes is a serious illness. It’s hard to believe they have to resort to the black market for the medical supplies to keep her alive.” He shook his head angrily. “I suppose producing medicines takes a back seat to other priorities in wartime. But she’s nineteen. That’s awfully young to be fighting for your life every day.”

“He’s sending every penny home,” Kinch said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Sometimes I think about how my money is piling up in Washington and imagine how I’ll spend it when I get back. I don’t feel too great about that right now. Peter won’t have a dime when he gets back. Or a tuppence.”

Hogan looked at Kinch with an expression somewhere between anger and sadness. “I’m not feeling too good about it either, Kinch.” He stopped as they reached their destination. “Right now, we’ve got some business to attend to. Will our guests be ready for their journey to Mannheim tonight?”

Kinch spread out a map on his table and sketched out the route with his finger. “Yes, Sir. The Antwerp Underground unit will meet them in Mannheim and transport them to the coast,” Kinch said.

Hogan tapped a pencil on the table. “Oostende?” he asked.

Kinch shook his head. “No, that route’s been compromised. They’re going farther up the coast to a little seaside resort town. Knokker-Heist, it’s called. The location means it's nearly twice the distance on the sea to England, but it’s less conspicuous. They’re landing in Colchester.”

“We’ll get them there. We have to. Carter and Newkirk have done the Mannheim route before. They can head out…” He stopped himself. “Dammit,” Hogan said. “Obviously we can’t… no…”

Kinch put his hands on his hips and leaned back, making crackling sounds with his spine as he arced into the stretch. “No, we can’t. Remember, Sir? We discussed sending Olsen with Carter.”

“Yes, they can do it. Neither one thinks as fast as Peter does, but Olsen’s German is better and he has good instincts. Olsen just needs to make sure Carter’s focus doesn’t slip,” Hogan said.

“That’s one of Newkirk’s specialties, but Olsen can manage,” Kinch acknowledged. He watched with concern as Hogan went off to talk to O’Keefe.

**XXX**

By early afternoon, Newkirk was putting the finishing touches on Osborne’s travel outfit. As Osborne stood before him in the get-up, Newkirk frowned. He wasn’t happy with the jacket he’d pulled off the rack a day earlier for a re-fit.

“What’s the matter with it?” Osborne said with a grin as Newkirk stood before him, grumbling and tugging at the lapels and the shoulders. “It fits just grand.”

“That’s what’s the mmmmatter, mate,” Newkirk said. “It fits too w-well. It should be a bit sh-shabbier.” He shook his head. “Fffforgot for a minute where I was, I suppose.” He picked up his tailor’s awl and began to loosen up the shoulder.

“Where’s you think you was—Savile Row?” Osborne joked.

“Yes, actually,” Newkirk smirked. “I was a t-tailor’s apprentice before the war. Did a b-bit of hand sewing, then into the c-cutting room.”

“I expect you’re very good at it,” Osborne said. “I couldn’t really say, though. You and me is working class lads. I never had a bespoke suit and I don’t suppose I ever will again.”

Newkirk stood back and appraised his work. The shoulders were now a bit lopsided and the seams looked uneven. “I hate to say it, but that’s better,” he said. “You look enough like a Kraut that I’d shoot you on sight.”

In the doorway, O’Keefe was watching. “Peter ‘ere is very skilled,” he said to Osborne. “You ‘ave a good trade, son. I ‘ope you’ll return to it after you get ‘ome.”

Newkirk just grunted and shifted his position to block O’Keefe from his sight. “Now, l-l-let’s have a look at those buttons,” he said to Osborne. “As I thought, they’re a b-bit too straight.” He yanked at one, ripping the fabric beneath it as he tore it away roughly. “There. Better,” he said sourly.

**XXX**

Newkirk was at the table practicing his shuffles and flourishes when Hogan breezed through the barracks. Roll call had passed, and most of the men were getting ready for bed.

“Our guests are leaving,” Hogan said pointedly as he approached the table. “Come down below with me.”

Newkirk bit his lip and frowned. “Is that an order, Sir?” he asked.

Hogan stopped. “It is if it has to be,” he said, extending a hand to the Corporal. He wasn’t going to let O’Keefe leave without giving him a chance to set things right with Peter.

Newkirk got up, but reluctance was written in the way he shook his head, the way he shoved his hands in his pockets, and the way he looked down. Nevertheless, he followed Hogan to the tunnel entrance.

Down below, Osborne, Wandsworth and O’Keefe were waiting, dressed as German workmen in rough garments of corduroy and wool.

“Good work on these outfits, Peter,” Hogan said quietly so only Newkirk could hear him.

“I try my best,” Newkirk snapped out, sounding more irritated than he intended to. “Sir,” he added apologetically. He looked up at Osborne. “Use that leg injury to your advantage, mmmate,” he said. If anyone asks you, say, “ _Es ist eine alte Kriegswunde._ ”

“Peter Newkirk, all growed up and speaking fluent German,” O’Keefe joked. Others laughed, but the quip fell flat with its intended target as Newkirk simply glared. Only O’Keefe and Hogan noticed, and they hung back as Kinch shepherded Osborne and Wandsworth down toward the tunnel exit.

“I don’t want to leave when you’re angry, Peter,” O’Keefe said.

“Then you’ll be staying a while, will you?” Newkirk retorted.

“Try to understand. I ‘ad to tell the Colonel. I’m looking out for your best interests even if you’re not,” O’Keefe said quietly. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Don’t be so bloody condescending. Go on, j-join your mates,” Newkirk replied brusquely. “Get out of my sight.”

“Say goodbye, Peter. Shake his hand and make amends,” Hogan gently advised. When Newkirk didn’t budge, he added, “It’s how a man behaves, and you’ll feel better for having done it.” Still no response, unless biting his lip harder counted. “It’s what I expect of my men,” Hogan said softly.

Reluctantly, Newkirk extended his hand. O’Keefe took it and Newkirk looked up. He saw the pain in his old friend’s eyes and he started to tremble. He stepped forward and O’Keefe pulled him into a hug.

“You’re a right pain in the arse, you know that?” O’Keefe said as Newkirk held on tight. “But you’re growing into a good man and one hell of a soldier.” He pushed him back at arm’s length to look at his tear-streaked face. “Alright? You understand me? You alright, lad?” He reached out to wipe away a tear.

Newkirk could only nod. He stepped back and firmly shook O’Keefe’s hand, then watched as he turned to head to the tunnel exit. “Be careful,” he called after him. “Get home safe.”

“You too,” O’Keefe replied as he looked back over his shoulder. “I’ll see you there soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newkirk teaches Osborne to explain his injury by saying, “It’s an old war wound” in German.
> 
> I really, really appreciate it when readers take time to comment and I am HAPPY to consider ideas!


	14. Defenders and Defendant

The trip to Mannheim and back was six hours on a good day, but it hadn’t been a good day. There were roadblocks and delays in both directions, inquisitive officials to dodge, and a near miss when one of the RAF men accidentally blurted out a “bloody hell” loud enough to be heard. Fortunately, a crippling knee to the groin was enough to refocus the listener’s attention and make a getaway. Newkirk knew a thing or two about fighting dirty and had taught Carter well.

When Olsen and Carter rolled back into camp, it was almost 6 A.M. and rollcall was an hour away. Colonel Hogan had been in the tunnel pacing for over an hour.

“You’re back! We were starting to wonder if we needed to send out a search party,” he said with concern in his voice as the two exhausted travelers made their way through the tunnel to change. “Any hiccups out there?”

“Everything went according to plan, Colonel,” Carter assured him. “We saw a Heer unit at milepost 60 that we hadn’t encountered before. It seemed like they might have been new there—their boots were shiny and their uniforms looked clean and new. Mostly pretty young guys, too, maybe fresh out of the Hitler Youth.”

“They take them young,” Hogan agreed.

Olsen snorted. “ _They_ take ‘em young?” he asked rhetorically. “We’re fine ones to talk.”

Carter looked crestfallen. “OK, there was one hiccup. O’Keefe said something on the way about Newkirk and I answered without thinking and … well, Olsen knows now.”

Hogan sighed and cradled his hand in his head. “Car-ter….” He groaned.

“I can’t believe he’s seventeen, Colonel,” Olsen said, shaking his head with what looked like severe disapproval. “It explains a lot.”

“What does it explain?” Carter asked indignantly.

“Why he’s so damn sensitive, for one thing,” Olsen said. “And why…”

“Stop right there, Olsen,” Hogan said firmly. “Peter has been an excellent member of this team, and I won’t stand by while you run him down.”

Olsen looked contrite. “I’m not running him down, Sir, really. I just mean it explains why he’s touchy and why he’s tired a lot and why he always has such a nice close shave. I thought he either had a secret source of sharp razors or an exceptional technique, but it turns out he just doesn’t have a beard. What it doesn’t explain is why he’s such a damn good soldier. Because he is. Everyone knows that.”

“You’re right about that, Olsen. Now listen, I need you to keep this under your hat. We’re still trying to sort out how to get him home,” Hogan said.

“He’s going home?” Olsen seemed stunned. “That doesn’t make sense, Colonel. He’s been over here for two years, doing his job. He’s got the right skills, training and experience. His stutter’s even getting better, and believe me, it was horrible before you got here, Sir. He could barely talk.”

“He’s underage, Olsen,” Hogan replied, sounding defeated. “We don’t have a lot of options.”

“Why can’t he just stay until he’s older, Sir?” That was Carter, jumping back into the discussion.

“Car-ter,” Hogan groaned again. He scrubbed his hand across his face. “This isn’t a high school. And I’m responsible for him. I have no idea of how to take care of a kid.”

“Then we’ll do it, Sir. We’ll all look after him and keep him out of trouble until he’s officially allowed to get into trouble again,” Carter said decisively.

Hogan laughed at that. “First of all, Peter will run circles around all of you. Second, I hadn’t thought of our mission as being ‘allowed to get into trouble,’ but I guess that’s a good description of a bunch of guys who go around stealing plans and blowing things up. Guys, I’m still trying to find out who in London can make a damned decision. In the meantime, we all have to understand that there some things I can’t allow him to do anymore.” He sighed. “Olsen, just go easy on him, will you? Don’t pick on him.”

Olsen looked embarrassed. “Believe me, Sir, I’m already there.”

**XXX**

Soup bowls were being cleared off the table at midday when the bunkbed lifted up to reveal the tunnel entrance. Kinch popped his head through. “Colonel Hogan?” he called.

“I’ll get him,” Carter said, dashing across the room. Kinch looked around for Newkirk. He was on his bunk lying on his side, his back to the room.

“Hey Newkirk, are you sleeping?” Kinch called up. No answer. “LeBeau, is he asleep in the middle of the day?”

LeBeau didn’t answer, but shook his head dramatically, his lower lip curled down in an expression of misery. Oh, Kinch realized. He’s blue. He’d make a point of speaking with him later.

Colonel Hogan came out of his office and climbed down the tunnel entrance after Kinch. “Finally got through to General Putnam,” Kinch was saying as the entrance snapped back into place.

The rest of the men were filing out into the compound to get some exercise after lunch, leaving only LeBeau, Carter and Newkirk behind.

“Pierre, are you hungry yet? It’s a very good potato soup and I saved you some.”

“No,” came the sulky reply.

Carter and LeBeau exchanged a look, and LeBeau nodded, with an upward swoosh of his head. Carter did as instructed, climbing up onto Newkirk’s bunk and sitting beside him.

“Hey,” he said. “You want to talk?”

“No,” Newkirk said.

“Well, listen pal, I’m going to just sit here and keep you company. That way if you do want to talk, I’m right here.”

“Go away, Carter,” Newkirk grumbled.

“Nope.”

“I mean it. Go,” Newkirk repeated.

“Nope.”

Newkirk turned to look at Carter. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Nope.”

Newkirk couldn’t help but laugh as he turned over on his side again. “Fine. Stay. Suit yourself.”

“Yup.” Carter was grinning now, and even Newkirk was on the verge of a smile. He rolled back over to face Carter.

“You’re an eejit, you know that?” He bit his lip. “Carter, w-what am I going to d-d-do if they send me home?”

“You’ll probably do what you always do,” Carter said. “You’ll put up a hell of a fight.”

Newkirk grinned broadly and then did his best Stan Laurel impersonation. “Right. I certainly will.”

XXX

Half an hour later, Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau had cleaned up the lunch dishes, tidied the barracks and headed outside with Newkirk’s football, a prized possession that he kept under the bunk he and Carter shared. They were passing it back and forth, heading it, and generally having fun, when Carter accidentally mistook it for an American football and lofted it into the air with his toe, like a placekicker.

“Use your instep, mate,” Newkirk griped as he and Carter jogged down field to retrieve their ball. When they caught up with it, Addison was holding it in his hands and yapping with Harper.

“You’ve got our ball—great,” Carter said. “Thanks, Addison.” He reached out for it, but Addison tossed it over his head to Harper.

“Oh, is this yours?” Addison asked. “Or is it P-P-P-Peter’s?”

“It’s mine,” Newkirk said. “Give it back.”

Addison and Harper, both six-footers, kept up their game of keep away, tossing the ball back and forth while Carter tried to intercept it. Newkirk stood stock still, glaring.

“Give me my ffff-fffff-ffffff,” Newkirk said. “Ffffff-fffff…”

Now Addison and Harper were laughing hysterically. Suddenly Olsen strode up. Newkirk groaned inwardly and knew he’d better shut up now. Addison was biggest wanker in Barracks 2, but Olsen had the sharpest tongue. Newkirk watched as he walked right up to Addison and took the ball, then dropped it and passed it to Newkirk.

“There you go, Newkirk. Take it,” he said. Newkirk's jaw was hanging open as Olsen turned to Addison and said, “You guys, stop being jerks, OK?”

“Have fun with your ffff-ffff-ffff-ffff,” Addison called as Newkirk and Carter walked off. They turned when they heard a thud. Addison was on the ground, and Olsen was standing over him, rubbing the fist that had put Addison there.

“Knock it off,” Olsen said to Addison. “Leave the kid alone.”

**XXX**

That encounter had taken the fun out of football, so Carter, LeBeau and Newkirk headed back into the barracks to smoke and play cards. They were at the table when Hogan and Kinch re-emerged from below.

Newkirk could feel Hogan’s hand on his back. He knew it was meant to comfort him, but every time anyone touched him lately, Newkirk could feel himself start to tremble. He had to get a grip on himself, he thought. He had lost it and cried three times in two days, and he couldn’t afford the loss of dignity. It was bad enough that Hogan and his mates knew he was only seventeen. If he kept crying like a baby, they’d treat him with kid gloves, and he didn’t think he could take that. So he dug his fingernails into his palms to give himself something else to think about.

“Any news from London, Sir?” he asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“I talked to General Putnam, Peter. He’s in charge of staffing, and he’s concerned, but he needs a few days to talk to people in the command chain and build a consensus,” Hogan said.

“What’s a con, con, con, consensus?” Newkirk asked. “Is it large? Does it take a lot of time to build one?”

“It means to get everyone in agreement, Pete,” Kinch said, suppressing a smile. Hogan’s hand was covering his mouth, but his eyes were dancing.

“Alright,” Newkirk said. “What happens in the meantime, Sir? I just want to be useful.”

“I’ve got a meeting at the Hauserhof tonight at 8:30 P.M.,” Hogan said. “You can help me figure out what to wear.”

“Righto, Sir,” Newkirk said glumly. Being reduced to the resident fashion consultant wasn’t his idea of the best way to use Peter Newkirk, but at least it was something. For now, he was still on the team.


	15. The Kitten's Out of the Bag

Meetings at the Hauserhof had become a frequent enough event that it would have been easy to become lax. This jacket, those trousers, that cap, that pair of boots had helped Hogan blend in before—so why not again?

“When you’re out so close to camp, it’s very important to blend in and not dr-draw attention, Sir,” Newkirk told Hogan as he guided him toward a brown suit. “B-b-but you can’t blend in with the ordinary working men tonight. The chap you’re mmmeeting with is a fffffellow with an office job, and he’s not going to be dr-dressed in corduroy.”

“Navy blue suit, then?”

“No. Brown, olive or gray. Never dress in a color that isn’t also used in camouflage if you want to be inconspicuous, Sir. Now, when you’re meeting a chap who has an important job, you need to look like your clothes came from the high street, not a jumble sale. And when you’re in the crowd, don’t be at the back or front. Stay in the middle.”

“How exactly do you think of these things, Peter?” Hogan asked with a smirk.

“That’s not a ssserious question, is it, Sir?” Newkirk replied.

“It is, actually. I mean, at your age… how do you know these things? When I thought you were older, it made more sense,” Hogan said.

Newkirk shrugged. He started to answer, but got stuck on the words, and hung there for a moment, blinking and struggling. “I, I, I’ve been in the game since I was little, Sir,” he said. “Going on j-jobs since I was ffffour or five.”

Hogan nodded solemnly as he slipped on the shirt Newkirk was holding out. “Did you parents know?”

“My old man? Yes. My mum? Probably,” he said, shrugging again. “I was small enough to slip through a wwwwindow if they needed a limb, or to cry and cause a d-disturbance if they needed a distraction.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Hogan inquired.

Newkirk shrugged again. “No one you’d know, Sir. No one you’d care to know, I’d wager.”

“Your father?”

“Sometimes,” Newkirk replied.

Hogan was tucking in the shirt and buttoning his trousers and Newkirk stood by with a jacket and two ties, eyes down. “You do know that’s not…usual, don’t you?” Hogan asked. “To be involved in such things, and for your father to allow it?”

“My old man didn’t ‘allow it,’ Colonel. He caused it. He made sure I was working. And of course I know,” Newkirk muttered. “The suit works nicely, Sir. Pick a tie.” He held them out and bit his lip, and Hogan didn’t press the matter any further. He didn’t know where to begin.

**XXX**

That evening, as Colonel Hogan went into Hammelburg for his meeting, Kinch waited up as usual. The Colonel had been gone more than two hours when, at 10 PM, Kinch heard the bunkbed entrance opening and saw a pair of boots descending.

“Newkirk! You’re up late,” Kinch said.

“Couldn’t sleep. I never can when it’s a solo mission,” Newkirk replied. “And thanks.”

“For what?”

“For calling me Newkirk. All of a sudden, it’s P-P-P-P-Peter this and P-P-Peter that,” he grumbled.

“I noticed,” Kinch said. “The Colonel’s having a very hard time thinking of you as seventeen…”

“Then he oughtn’t,” Newkirk said.

“… and he’s calling you by your first name to remind himself. Does it bother you that much?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Would it bother you that much if everyone started calling you ‘Boy’?” Newkirk asked. He saw Kinch flinch. “Yeah, I thought it might do,” he added angrily.

“Well, you are a boy,” Kinch said.

“Yes, and you are a Negro. N-neither of us can change who we are. B-b-but it’s not how we should be j-j-judged.”

Kinch shook his head and laughed. “You’re pretty smart for a kid, Pete,” he said. “I mean, Newkirk.”

“You always call me P-P-Pete. It’s fine,” Newkirk said. “Kinch, can you talk him into letting me stay? I don’t want to go back.”

Kinch lit the cigarette that Newkirk had helped himself to, then took one for himself and lit up. “The Colonel knows my opinion, Newkirk. You’re irreplaceable on this team. We can’t afford to lose you.”

Newkirk puffed out a smoke ring and watched it float up. “Why doesn’t he see that?” he asked.

“Trust me, he sees it. But he’s stuck. There are rules and he has to navigate them. And I think he’s kind of nervous,” Kinch said.

“Why would he be nervous? Nothing has changed. Nothing but a stupid number that no one should have known in the first place,” Newkirk complained.

“I think when you cried…” Kinch began.

“Oh, bloody hell. I knew it, I knew it, I knew that would come back to bite me,” Newkirk said angrily. “I was so stupid. He thinks I’m a baby.”

“You’re not listening. I think when you cried, he was afraid he couldn’t handle it if anything happened to you. Not that you couldn’t—that _he_ couldn’t. He knows how tough you are,” Kinch said. He paused for a moment and then added, “He told me he was this close to crying himself.”

Newkirk looked stunned. “Colonel Hogan does not cry,” he said firmly.

“Yeah. Neither does Peter Newkirk. Everyone knows that,” Kinch said. Newkirk gulped as he took in what Kinch was saying. “Look, Pete, what I’m saying is that Colonel Hogan already knows war is hell. It was already hard for him to send you guys into risky situations night after night, because we’re all family to him. But now, on top of that, he’s got an ethical dilemma. How young is too young? He’s not sure what the answer is, and he’s hoping like hell London can tell him.”

“Please, j-j-just talk to him again. He listens to you," Newkirk said with a yawn.

"Go back to bed, buddy," Kinch said.

"No," Newkirk said stubbornly. "Don't want to. Not when the Gov is out."

Two hours later, when Colonel Hogan returned, he found Kinch at his switchboard as usual, transcribing notes. Slumped beside him, snoring softly with his arms pillowing his head on the table, was Newkirk.

Hogan smiled at the sight. “Good talk?” he asked Kinch, who nodded back.

“He had a few things to get off his chest, Sir,” he replied. “He’s still pleading to stay. And I think he was just worried about you.”

Hogan laid a hand gently on Newkirk’s shoulder. “He always worries. We’ll have to see what London says,” he murmured. He launched into a quick debrief on the mission, then shook his young Corporal awake.

“Come on, Peter,” he said softly. “It’s way past your bedtime.” With a hand on his back, he steered him up the ladder.

**XXX**

It started the next morning with whispers.

_“They’re talking about sending him home.”_

_“What for? What did he do?”_

_“It must have been something pretty bad.”_

_“He probably stole something. You know he’s a dirty crook.”_

“Shut up, Addison. You too, Harper and Mills. You guys are so dumb that you don’t even know what you don’t know.” That was Olsen. He’d heard enough.

Hogan heard it through his window as he was at his desk trying to concentrate on the duty roster for the next week. He sighed and pushed his work aside. The compound was calling.

As he passed through the barracks, he saw Carter and Newkirk, huddled on Carter’s bunk and looking at a raggedy issue of “Detective Comics.” A gigantic bat clutching a man was on the cover. No, wait, the bat was a man, too! Hogan shook his head. Who came up with this stuff? What a waste of a dime.

“How many times has that thing made the rounds?” Hogan joked as he stopped to inspect what they were reading. The cover said May 1939. Issue No. 27. “Holy cow, it’s almost four years old!” Hogan said. “Why hasn’t it fallen apart yet?”

“Tony’s kid brother sent it with his last care package,” Carter said. “He included cellophane tape so we don’t mess it up.”

“Bat-Man just knocked this chap Stryker into an acid tank where he was killed instantly!” Newkirk said in wide-eyed amazement. “Blimey, we don’t have stories like that in _The Dandy_!”

“Just don’t get any ideas,” Hogan muttered as he walked off.

XXX

“Olsen?” Hogan beckoned as he exited the barracks. He pulled him closer and walked him to the far end of the barracks, away from the gossipmongers. “What’s going on? I hear chatter.”

“The guys are overhearing conversations about Newkirk, Sir,” Olsen said. “The rumor mill is working overtime, and they think he’s in trouble. What can I say to help, Sir?”

“Say he’s not in any trouble,” Hogan said. “There’s nothing else you can say. If anyone has questions, just shrug and tell them to ask me.”

As they huddled in a corner, they missed the sight of Newkirk and Carter strolling out into the compound and straight into Addison, Harper and Mills.

“Hey, Newkirk,” Addison started in. “I hear you may be going on a little trip. What did you do this time, steal the Colonel’s eagles?”

“Shut up, Addison,” Newkirk said, glaring.

Addison, Harper and Mills crowded around Newkirk and Carter, standing just a little too close for comfort and peering down at the two smaller men. “Make me,” Addison said.

“Cut it out, Addison. Pick on someone your own age,” Carter said.

Addison scoffed while Newkirk’s ears turned pink. “We’re practically the same age, Carter,” he said.

“I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about Newkirk. He’s just a k-…”

At that, a punch landed hard in Carter’s gut. As he reeled and gasped, he realized it wasn’t from Addison, Harper or Mills. It was from Newkirk.

“Inside. Everyone. Now.” If Hogan had been any angrier, steam would have been coming out of his ears and nose. LeBeau had come outside and was checking over Carter. Hogan had Newkirk by the scruff of the neck and was pushing him roughly toward the door of the barracks. “My quarters,” he said. “Sit and wait.” He pushed Newkirk inside and shut the door.

**XXX**

Newkirk could hear the ruckus in the main barracks room as he sat brooding on Colonel Hogan’s bottom bunk. Keeping quiet was one of his skills. He made a point of not talking and not sharing anything with anyone he didn’t trust implicitly. But somehow in the last few days privacy had been shot all to hell. Now, it appeared, the whole barracks was finding out the truth about him, and it made him furious.

He had a good sulk going when the door cracked open and LeBeau slipped inside. He sat down beside Newkirk.

“How’s Carter?” Newkirk asked.

“He’s fine. You just knocked the wind out of him. He’s worried about you,” LeBeau replied.

“He should be. I’m ready to cripple him. Why can’t he keep his gob shut?”

“He was trying to defend you, and it didn’t go as he expected,” LeBeau said.

“That’s the problem! Suddenly everyone wants to defend me and take care of me! I can defend myself and I don’t need looking after! I’ve been looking after myself…” Newkirk suddenly ran out of steam, and choked back a sob. “I’ve been looking after myself for a ruddy long time.” He wiped at his eyes furiously, as if being harsh with himself could make him to stop leaking tears. He took in a deep breath and then pushed it out through pursed lips. He hugged himself as if he was trying physically to pull together all the pieces of the puzzle that was Peter Newkirk.

“So Colonel Hogan’s telling everyone I’m seventeen.”

LeBeau tipped an ear to listen. “I haven’t heard him say ‘seventeen.’ I’ve heard him say ‘younger than we thought’ and ‘underage when he enlisted.’ And he said London hasn’t reached any decisions yet, so everyone needs to shut up.”

“I’m starting to wish he would j-j-just send me back,” Newkirk said sadly. LeBeau snaked an arm around his waist and pulled him closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A "limb" (paragraph 10) is a naughty or mischievous child. In Oliver Twist, Bill Sykes used this term to describe Oliver when using him to commit a burglary.
> 
> The Caped Crusader, Batman, made his debut in Detective Comics #27, issued in May 1939. The Dandy was a popular kids' comic in Britain. It started in 1937, when Newkirk would have been 12 according to this story's timeline.


	16. The Talk

Days had gone by with no response from London, so life in Barracks 2 continued to plod along as Newkirk twisted in the wind, wondering about his fate. Carter, being Carter, naturally understood and forgave him, though Newkirk didn't forgive himself. Hogan settled for lecturing him on who the enemy was and asking him to be "calm and patient," which he said with a strange little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Just being with the other guys was a welcome distraction for Newkirk. This afternoon, he was hanging on every word as Olsen held forth about his many sweethearts.

“… After Christine, there was Barbara. Let me tell you about our last night together in London. I was on leave from my unit, and we were alone in her flat. I had a few glasses of port, and I was so hot that I had my shirt off and let us just say she was half dressed too. Now, some of you might be wondering, which half?”

“You’re gonna need more than your shirt off, Olsen,” Harper chortled.

LeBeau was focusing on preparing a meal and not on Olsen’s latest boastful reminiscence of his conquests. From his vantage point at the stove, he looked around at Olsen’s listeners as they hooted and argued about top, bottom, right or left. He certainly had them all mesmerized. Addison, Garlotti, Goldman, Mills, Davis, Harper, Carter, Newkirk…

Newkirk? Oh, no. Olsen had to stop right now. LeBeau moved just close enough to the table to elbow him hard in the back of the head.

Olsen looked at LeBeau furiously, but quickly comprehended as he saw his eyes cut over to their youngest team member.

“Um, well, I’ll tell you guys the rest later, after everyone is in bed,” Olsen said. He was on a roll, but it could wait until after Newkirk was asleep; he was usually one of the first men to conk out, and it finally made sense to Olsen why that was so. He remembered how annoyed he was when he started high school and his mom gave him a 9:30 bedtime. She informed him that teenagers needed a good nine or ten hours of sleep at night, even more than his younger brother and sisters required. And darn it, she was right, and he was grateful. He probably wouldn’t have made captain of the baseball team if he hadn’t listened.

“Jeez, Olsen, you were just getting to the good part,” Garlotti said, but then Olsen kicked him under the table and gestured with his head toward Newkirk. “Oh, yeah, yeah, tonight would be good,” Garlotti said. He realized he wouldn’t want his little brother listening to this story, and over the past week Newkirk had moved into the same category.

“Tonight? I want to hear it now,” Newkirk said. “You got us all provoked, Olsen.”

“Yeah, I can see that, Newkirk,” Harper said with a snicker, looking down at the bench where Newkirk sat and peering dramatically into his lap.

“Shut up, Harper,” Newkirk replied.

“I’ll tell you the whole story later, Newkirk,” Olsen said.

“Yeah, the kiddie version,” Addison said.

“Take that back. I know as much as any man here and more than Carter, and you’re not exactly making him cover his ears!” He was tired of his new status as the baby of Barracks 2 and was still smarting that Carter had spilled the details. By the time he got to his feet to show Addison and Harper that he wasn’t someone to be trifled with, LeBeau had intercepted him. He had Newkirk by the sleeve and was dragging him outside before he started throwing punches.

“Now wait a minute,” Carter was saying as his friends stumbled toward the door. “I’m not a virgin if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Whoa,” Olsen said. “Now that’s a story I want to hear. Do tell, Carter.”

“I’m not either,” Newkirk was shouting over his shoulder as LeBeau pushed him out of the barracks and let the door bang shut. He could hear laughter echoing behind him.

LeBeau shoved him down on a bench. “Pierre, really?”

“Really what?”

“What you just said. You’ve been here since you were fifteen.”

“Yes, but I’ve…” Newkirk started. Then the air went out of him as LeBeau’s look cut through him. No one could get him to be honest the way LeBeau could. “Fine. I’ve been close a fffffew times with a b-barmaid near the airbase, b-but I’ve never done the deed and apparently even C-C-Carter has done, which is bloody annoying. I swear, Louis, you’d ruddy well better nnnot say nothing to no one.”

“Hmm. Nor will I say anything to anyone. But what about all those stories you’ve told about your girlfriends?” LeBeau asked.

“Well, I _have_ had a lot of girlfriends, but, you know… we held hands and kissed, mostly,” Newkirk admitted. “But I know things,” he added boldly. “I listen to a lot of chatter in the b-barracks because I don’t always like to talk. And I’ve been in a th-theater dressing room where ladies were changing. And I have all those sisters. And, and, and I have a very vivid imagination.”

 _What boy doesn’t?_ LeBeau thought as he sat beside Newkirk on the bench and let out a breath. He expected to have this talk someday, but he thought he’d be a father first.

“All right,” LeBeau said, slapping his hands decisively on his thighs. “What do you know?”

“About what?”

“What are we discussing, Pierre? Sex, of course. What do you know?”

“I know everything,” Newkirk said defiantly.

“So you _do_ know how babies are made,” LeBeau said.

Newkirk wrinkled his nose in disdain. “Of course I do. I’m practically an adult, LeBeau.”

“Yes, you’re practically an adult who has been a POW since you were a boy of fifteen. So I ask you again, do you understand it? Do you need me to explain any of it?”

“No! I know what fits where, mate! Cor blimey, I’m seventeen, not seven!”

“All right. And about women—what do you know?”

Newkirk sighed dramatically. “Like I said, I have seven older sisters. We live in a very small flat.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“What, do you mean about things that I already know?”

“Yes,” LeBeau said.

“Obviously not,” Newkirk snapped back. He paused and then continued quietly, as if he was speaking to himself. “But p-perhaps there are a ffffew details I could learn more about. I m-mean, anyone could,” he said with a little shrug and a tip of the head. “No one really knows everything about the mmmmysteries of…”—he paused and leaned into LeBeau’s ear to whisper—“…sex.”

“Precisely,” LeBeau said, fighting back a smile. “There is always more to learn.”

Newkirk sat silently, studying his hands and biting his lip before looking up at LeBeau. “Mmmaybe I have one or two questions. J-j-just to fill in some gaps and ssssatisfy your need to t-t-t-teach me things, though. Because it’s nothing I can’t fffffigure out on my own.”

Twenty minutes later, LeBeau had answered a half-dozen questions, calmed a few worries and was wrapping up a very fatherly talk. “And that’s how it works, every month. _Est-ce bien compris_? You have the whole picture now?”

“ _Compris_ , LeBeau. Ta.”

“You’re welcome. And just remember about that other matter. It’s perfectly normal at your age. You’ll have more control over it as you get older, alright?”

“That’s a relief,” Newkirk admitted. He got up to go.

“Sit down,” LeBeau said, grabbing Newkirk’s arm before he could even get fully upright. “There is something else I must tell you. Something much more important than how the physical aspects of sex work,” LeBeau said. He patted the bench.

Newkirk sat down, astonished. Blimey, was there a part to this he hadn’t heard _anything_ about? A secret he was about to be initiated into? He was confident that if anyone knew all there was to know about this subject, it had to be a Frenchman. Particularly LeBeau, who in Newkirk’s view was an oracle.

LeBeau looked at him intensely, then began speaking once he was sure he had Newkirk’s complete attention. “Pierre, you must respect women. When you hear jokes like the one Olsen was telling, don’t listen,” he said. “Walk away.”

“That’s rather prudish, coming from a man of the world like you, Louis,” Newkirk said skeptically. “I didn’t see you walking off.”

“No, but you didn’t see me laughing and joining in, either. You don’t have to make a big show of walking off, but you don’t have to participate. Those jokes are suitable for boys who don’t really understand women, not for real men like you and me,” LeBeau said, gesturing with his hand. He knew he had his _petit pote_ eating out of the palm of his hand, so he went with his strongest ideals.

“Pierre, each woman is a beautiful and unique flower. They’re not a punch line for a joke. You know this already because you have seven wonderful sisters. Would you like it if anyone spoke of them that way?”  
  
“I would punch anyone who tried,” Newkirk replied.

“That’s because you are honorable and you respect women,” LeBeau said, punctuating his comments with two pats on Newkirk’s chest. “I also want you to remember this, Pierre: Nothing on earth is more amazing than the touch of a woman who loves you. Having sex may feel good, but making love with one special person is better. Don’t rush it. Be friends first. It will be worth it. Alright?”

“What about Colonel Hogan?” Newkirk inquired. “He’s not ‘ffffriends first’ with all those women he has. They all fall in love with him instantly and that’s that. Off to the races!”

“That is not love, Pierre. That is lust.” He stopped and sighed. “I won’t lie to you, _mon pote_ , most of us do give into lust now and then, and you’ll make that mistake like I have. But we don’t have to do that over and over. Being reckless with our desires demeans us and it demeans women. It is worth it to pay attention and wait for love.”  
  
“But the Colonel…”  
  
“The Colonel is a good man. Like you, I put him on a pedestal. But like every good man he is not perfect. One of his imperfections is that he gives in too quickly to his desires. He is a role model for you, but not in that way. _Tu comprends_?”

Newkirk sighed. “ _Oui, je comprends, Louis. Merci._ ”

“He doesn’t have to be perfect,” LeBeau added. “He is human. So are we. And he is kind to women, I know this. But he casts them off like a worn shirt and slips on another one. You and me, Pierre, we must try our best. Respect women and wait for love. Love means being there in good times and bad times, so don’t say ‘ _Je t’aime_ ’ unless you really mean it, alright?”

“Yes,” Newkirk replied seriously. “I’ll try my best to be true.”

“There is one more thing. You are very handsome, so you will have to work extra hard not to charm all the women,” LeBeau added with a wink. "You have a special duty to be kind." At that, Newkirk blushed and covered his eyes with the back of one hand.

“Alright,” LeBeau said, rising to his feet. “Come on, let’s go see what Carter’s up to. And Pierre?”

“Yes?”

“Remind me to find time to work on your French pronunciation, _oui_?”

Newkirk took off his cover and smacked LeBeau with it as they walked back to the barracks.


	17. Bad News

March 25 rolled around and as promised, LeBeau produced a cake for Garlotti’s birthday. It was more of an apple tart, and it was small but delicious. That evening, as LeBeau meticulously cut it into 15 pieces to share among all the men of Barracks 2, Kinch appeared from the tunnel with a somber look on his face and waved Hogan into his quarters.

They’d been waiting for a week for someone in London to make a decision and tonight the word had been handed down from General Putnam. He’d considered the matter, consulted with a few people, and concluded that, as he put it, “The boy should come home.” Hogan had a week to figure out how to sew up loose ends. A submarine would be waiting on April 2, when a new moon would ensure low visibility, making conditions ideal for undercover activities.

Hogan pushed open his door and peered out at the scene before him. Newkirk and LeBeau were seated together at the table with Garlotti, Olsen and Goldman, smiling as they savored every bite. Carter, sitting nearby in his bunk, waved off his slice, complaining of a sore throat, so the extra piece went to the birthday boy. They all looked relaxed. Newkirk was telling a joke.

Hogan shut the door and turned back to Kinch. “Dammit,” he said. “Dammit. Are they discharging him?”

“No, Sir. He’ll be allowed to remain in the RAF, but he’ll be assigned to safe duty with a support squadron, helping anti-aircraft batteries calibrate their predictors and radar sets.”

“He’s going to go out of his mind with boredom,” Hogan groaned. “Where is this ‘safe duty’ supposed to occur?”

“Somewhere in Scotland. Inverness, possibly,” Kinch said, sounding almost apologetic. He couldn’t see Newkirk in the remote north of Scotland, and felt sick at the idea that he’d have to find a way to fit in all over again.

“So he’s not going to be anywhere near his family,” Hogan groused. “And he doesn’t have the technical qualifications to be an instrument calibrator, so he’ll probably be filing requisition requests. Or maybe answering the phone, which would kill him all by itself. Terrific.” He sat down heavily at his table and rested his head in his hands. “I’ll break it to him tomorrow,” he said.

**XXX**

“When, Sir?” The voice was flat, unemotional and utterly resigned.

“You’ll need to leave here late at night on April 1 to be in position on April 2. Six days until you depart. I’m sorry, Peter, but London wants you out of harm’s way until you’re able to make the decision to serve,” Hogan said. Kinch was with him as he delivered the crushing news to Newkirk.

“Even though I’ve already made the bloody decision,” Newkirk observed drily. “And I’ll be discharged?”

“No. If you want to serve, they’ll let you stay in with your father’s permission. As, um, an aircraftman,” Hogan said.

“What, they’re going to bust me down three ranks? Take my stripes?” Now Newkirk’s outrage was back.

“Peter, I’m sorry. They’ll restore your rank…”

“When I’m of age. I know. I’ve heard. At 12:01 am on December 22, I’ll magically be able to make decisions for myself. Wise decisions, not stupid, childish ones like stepping up to serve my country and applying myself diligently to every task given to me. Is that all, Sir?”

“It’s not all. Sit,” Hogan said. “You’re being assigned to RAF Inverness to work on signal calibration supplies.”

“A supply clerk. Very good, Sir. Now is that all, Sir?”

“Peter,” Hogan said with a sigh. “What don’t you round up LeBeau and Carter and go kick your football, around, all right? Let off some steam and we’ll talk this afternoon. Maybe there’s something I haven’t considered yet.”

"In case you haven't noticed, Carter's ill," Newkirk snapped. "But yes, Sir, going out to play, Sir. I'll get my toys at once. I'm quite sure I have some tin soldiers in my footlocker as well. I keep them with my storybook. I'll get them all out and I can amuse myself for hours, like a good little lad," he snarled. "Can I be dismissed, please, Colonel Hogan?" His sneer was audible as he spat out the officer's rank.

"Yes, you're dismissed," Hogan said, adding gently, "Corporal Newkirk."

Newkirk looked startled. “Thank you Sir,” he said softly. Hearing his name—his proper name, with his proper rank—was a small consolation on what was shaping up to be the worst day of his life, at least for another six days, when things would be even worse.

Hogan and Kinch watched as Newkirk left—not in a storm or a huff, but with slumped shoulders, looking totally defeated. He sat down next to Carter, who was lying in his bunk, now ill with a fever to go with his sore throat.

“No stutter,” Kinch said. “He’s mad as hell.”

“He should be,” Hogan said. “I’ve failed him.” He sighed and turned back to sit at his table. “All right,” he said. “How are we getting him out of here without damaging Klink’s perfect escape record?”

**XXX**

Hogan and Kinch batted around options and settled on having Newkirk transferred for some misbehavior to ensure that he would escape while he was on another Kommandant’s roster. April Fool’s Day was starting to look like a miserable joke and Hogan and Kinch were glum as they blocked out the plan.

They were debating the merits of a transfer to LuftStalag 12 versus LuftStalag 10 when there was a ruckus in the main barracks room. Schultz was shouting and Newkirk was shouting back. They emerged to witness Newkirk twisting as Schultz gripped him by the collar.

“Stop it! Stop it at once!” Schultz lectured Newkirk. “Be still!”

“Leave off, you great git,” Newkirk said, then stomped his boot down on Schultz’s foot and broke free. “I don’t have to listen to you!”

“Owwww! Newkirk, you foolish boy! Do you want to get shot?”

“Yes! Go ahead, shoot! You can’t make things any worse!”

By this time, Kinch had Newkirk in a clutch, and Hogan was settling Schultz onto the bench to recover from the pain Newkirk had just inflicted. “What the heck is going on, Schultz?” he asked.

“Newkirk threw a rock at the guard’s tower, and then another and another. He has a very good arm, Colonel Hogan, and when Corporal Fleischer came over to warn him to stop, he hit him on the shoulder with a rock.”

“Only because he dodged,” Newkirk said. “If he hadn’t moved, I’d have clocked him on the head.”

“I have to take him to the cooler for this, but Colonel, I wanted you to talk to him first. Tell Newkirk he must not throw rocks at Germans!” Schultz said. “Ohh, Newkirk, you give me so much trouble!”

“I don’t ruddy care!” Newkirk replied.

Colonel Hogan sighed and attempted to pull Newkirk to one side to find out what on earth he was thinking, but Newkirk wouldn’t budge, nor would he look Hogan—or anyone else—in the eyes.

“J-j-just lock me away, Schultz,” he snapped. “I don’t bloody care what you do with me. There’s nothing for me here.” 

**XXX**

The sentence was a week in the cooler—exactly enough time for Hogan to engineer Newkirk’s transfer. He knew what he had to do—convince Klink that Newkirk had become such a menace that he was no longer welcome in the barracks, so that Klink would set his transfer and escape in motion.

But not yet, Hogan decided. Newkirk was leaving in only six days. And back in Barracks 2, his closest friends were angry and distraught that he was already, for all practical purposes, gone from them. He needed Newkirk out of the cooler for at least a few days so they could all say their goodbyes.

LeBeau was furious—with everyone, including the Germans, the Allied High Command, and Hogan himself. Carter, flushed with fever, was indignant. He couldn’t believe the gall of their captors to punish a man for throwing rocks when he was leaving in a few days anyway. When Kinch pointed out that the Germans didn’t know Newkirk was leaving in a few days, Carter looked bewildered. Maybe it was the fever, but that hadn’t occurred to him.

Kinch was disappointed—with London for ordering Newkirk home, with Hogan for not having a brilliant scheme to prevent it, and with himself for not being able to spur Hogan into action. The Colonel, he realized, was as devastated as anyone.

That evening, Hogan went to visit Newkirk in his cell and was met with complete silence. Newkirk, sitting on the cold stone floor, looked straight ahead, studiously ignoring every effort Hogan made to soothe his fears or engage him in conversation. He ignored the sandwich Hogan slipped out of his pocket. He offered no thanks when Hogan beckoned to Schultz to bring fresh drinking water. He yanked his head away when Hogan reached out to stroke it before returning to the barracks.

He was angry. He’d been abandoned. He had to go back and he’d be off to stupid bloody Scotland, where’d he’d have to start all over again. He’d have to learn a meaningless job and be tough and stay quiet so no one would laugh at him when he stammered. He’d feel useless. And he’d never find a mate who liked him as much as Carter did, who understood him as well as Kinch did, or who cared for him as deeply as LeBeau did. He’d never have any other big brothers. 

And he’d never, ever, ever trust another officer or make the mistake of thinking of anyone, especially an American colonel, was almost, practically, very nearly the good father he’d never had.

His stomach was rumbling, and despite his fury, he reached for the sandwich. He took a bite, swallowed, and winced. He sipped at the water and winced again. He took another bite, groaned, and threw the sandwich across the room in frustration. His throat was too sore for him to eat anything. He watched a mouse scurry and nibble at the bread. Then Newkirk closed his eyes and fell asleep there on the stone floor.


	18. Hot and Bothered in the Cooler

At roll call the next morning, the men were treated to a droning lecture by Klink about the futility of their position as captives and warnings about rocks and other missiles, complete with bad analogies and circular references to David, Goliath and a slingshot. Hogan found himself tapping his foot and wondering if Klink recalled that David slew Goliath and cut off his head. Probably not, he decided. The Nazis had probably rewritten it to make sure that the Jewish kid lost.

Hogan was not surprised when Klink summoned him to his office for a talk.

“Colonel Hogan,” he began as the American settled into the chair and put on his most patient mask, “the Englander is out of control. At the last rollcall, he shouted out that my mother wears combat boots, and she most emphatically does not. She has orthopedic shoes and in these difficult times it’s not her fault that they only come in black. Colonel Hogan, you must make that Englander show respect for me and obey the guards or he will face much worse punishments than a week in the cooler.”

“He’s unhappy, Sir. Maybe if you could serve tea and scones in the mess hall once in a while, that would lift his spirits. But don’t go to any trouble, like conquering England.”

“Enough, Hogan. Before you got here, he barely spoke. Even when he did cause trouble, he did so quietly. Now he’s brazen and loud. I blame you for this.”

“He was bound to come out of his shell eventually, Sir. With his stutter, he only talks around people he’s comfortable with. And clearly, that’s you, Sir. I know it seems like he’s mouthing off, but he’s just showing how much he likes you,” Hogan said. “He’s your number one fan, Sir.”

“He likes me?” Klink puffed up at that suggestion. “Really, Hogan?”

“Oh, yes, Sir. When I visited him in the cooler last night, the first thing he said was that he knew you would be so disappointed in his behavior. He idolizes you, Sir. I think it’s your Prussian bearing.”

Minutes later, Hogan had negotiated for Newkirk’s early release as Klink decided that two more nights in the cooler should suffice to send a clear message to such a well-intentioned young man. “Can I see him now? I’ll let him know of your merciful decision, Sir,” Hogan asked meekly.

“No,” Klink said. “Allow me to go with you. I’ll tell him myself.”

 _Ugh_ , Hogan thought. He really, really had to remind himself not to overplay his hand. 

**XXX**

The sound of a tin plate and cup clattering on a stone floor rang through the cooler as Hogan and Klink made their way down the corridor to the last cell where Newkirk was locked up. Schultz was dodging out of the cell, dripping with water and God knows what else, and shaking a chubby finger. “Newkirk! You must be nice! I bring you food. You must not throw it at me!”

“What’s that on your uniform, Schultz?” Klink asked Schultz as he drew closer.

“ _Das ist Haferbrei, mein Oberst_ ,” Schultz replied to Klink. Then, turning to Hogan as he wiped off a clump with a finger, he added, “I believe the English call it porridge. I thought Newkirk liked it. I even put sugar on it for him.”

“That’s it—he’s attacking my guards with porridge! I’ll teach him to be so incorrigible!” Klink sputtered as he strode toward the cell. Schultz and Hogan each caught him by an arm and tugged him back.

“Don’t do it, Herr Kommandant,” Schultz warned. “He’s hurling food and dishes about like a chimpanzee. I don’t know what’s got into him.”

Klink peered toward the cell, then drew himself up nice and tall. “Hmmph!” he said. “Hogan, get in there and calm down your man.” He shouted over his shoulder, “You’ll be in there for two weeks if you don’t settle down, Newkirk!”

“Don’t bloody care, you great twit!” Newkirk roared back.

Hogan sighed and ventured toward the cell, taking care not to slip on a patch of porridge. Newkirk was right where he left him the night before, only he was standing up this time, surrounded by a colossal mess. Porridge everywhere, a crumbly sandwich in the corner, puddles of water, and in the corner, a tipped-over slops bucket. Nice touch, Hogan thought as a mouse darted by.

At the sight of Hogan, Newkirk slid back down to his spot on the floor and assumed his thousand yard stare, looking past Hogan as if he wasn’t even there.

Hogan studied his young Corporal. His hair was a mess, his face was grubby, his clothes were wet and dirty from porridge and water and possibly mustard, his nose looked raw and his cheeks were bright red, probably from the cold.

“Peter,” he said softly.

Newkirk flinched and looked at him. “Don’t talk to me,” he said sullenly.

Well, that was something, Hogan decided. At least he was responding.

“I’m trying to get you out, but you’re not helping,” Hogan said, keeping his voice even. He didn’t want Newkirk to think he was angry.

“I’d rather stay in here and rot,” Newkirk replied.

“Or starve,” Hogan said, surveying his surroundings. “You have to eat something.”

Newkirk just shook his head defiantly. No, he absolutely didn’t have to eat, he thought. And no one was going to make him. Especially when his throat was on fire. He tucked his hands under his armpits to warm them up as Hogan continued to speak quietly to him. Gradually, a fist found its way under his nose and he began stroking the corner of his mouth with the top knuckle of his thumb.

Hogan watched in dismay. Newkirk looked utterly woebegone, Hogan thought. He wanted to reach out and take him by the hand to get his attention, but he knew Newkirk would lash out, so he held back.

“I know you’re angry with me,” he said as gently as possible. “And you’re right. I’ve failed you. If I could keep you here at Stalag 13, I would. But the best I can offer is safety. And your friends want to see you before you go.”

Newkirk gulped hard at the mention of his friends, then winced. He let out an involuntary moan. His throat was so raw.

“What’s the matter?” Hogan asked. “Are you hurt? Did they…?”

“I’m not hurt,” Newkirk said. He was tired of fighting, tired of being angry, and just plain tired. “Just a bit of a sore throat.” He heaved out a sigh. “I’ll be good. I wwwwawnt to see mmmy mates.”

“Good man. Now, listen, why don’t you rest on the bunk instead of here on the floor,” Hogan suggested.

“Because it’s c-c-covered in vermin,” Newkirk replied. “And the mmmmice have nested inside it. I’ve slept on fffffloors before.” He sat and rubbed his neck, still wincing.

“All right. Let’s see what we can do to fix that,” Hogan said. He called Schultz down to the cell and quickly explained the problem. Schultz promptly handed in a broom and dustpan, and headed off to see what he could do about the bunk. Hogan swept up the food and watched Newkirk doze against the wall.

After about 15 minutes, Schultz reappeared with Corporal Langenscheidt, carrying a straw-filled mattress between them. It wasn't much to look at, but it wasn’t filthy and it wasn’t full of holes or crawling with critters. They laid it down on the bunk and Langenscheidt took away the old mattress with orders from Schultz to burn it. Schultz was the enemy, but he was also humane and did his best to live by the golden rule.

Hogan shook Newkirk awake, got him on his feet, and led him to the bunk. “There now,” he said. “You rest. If you can stay calm, I’ll have you out in two days, all right?”

Newkirk’s combativeness had given way to sheer exhaustion and defeat. He laid on the bunk and let Hogan pull a blanket over his shoulder. He watched through tired eyes as Schultz returned with a canteen of fresh water and as Langenscheidt came to swap out the slops bucket and mop the corner of the stone floor where he'd spilled the last one.

He was already asleep when Hogan departed, frowning, worried, and wondering what to do next.

**XXX**

Hogan ran into Sergeant Wilson on his way back to Barracks 2. Oh, yes, Carter, he remembered. He’d been sick for two days now.

“How’s Carter?” Hogan asked.

“Try Carter, Broughton, and Garlotti,” Wilson replied. “Not great, and it looks like strep throat for all three of them. I wish I had room in the infirmary for them, Colonel, but we’ve only got ten beds and they’re all full. This infection is spreading like wildfire-I've got eight guys with strep as it is. See if you can separate your sick guys into one corner so I don’t have to quarantine the whole barracks, OK? I've got to check on Barracks 3. Billings says they've got two sick guys."

“Is there anything that will help?” Hogan asked.

“Bed rest, gargling with warm salty water, and aspirin every four hours. I don’t have any other tricks up my sleeve,” Wilson shrugged. “Sorry. Keep their dishes and utensils separate, and make sure everyone’s washing their hands.”

Hogan thought for a minute. “Newkirk’s in the cooler. He says he’s got ‘a bit of a sore throat,’” Hogan said, making quote marks with his fingers.

“Newkirk says he’s a bit sick? That’s like saying London gets a bit of fog,” Wilson said. “I’ll get in there to see him.”

**XXX**

Klink, however, had better things to do than talk to Wilson. There was an afternoon coffee to attend at the home of Graf von Leiningen. By the time he rolled back into camp, it was 5 PM and he wanted his supper. By the time Wilson got into the cooler to see Newkirk, it was after evening roll call.

With Schultz leading the way, Wilson and Hogan entered the small cell and found Newkirk on his bunk, shivering. His evening meal, delivered by the guard on duty, Private Dürr, was untouched. His canteen had spilled. The light was so poor that Wilson couldn’t look at his throat, but Newkirk was hot to the touch and obviously ill.

“This man is sick,” Wilson said bluntly. “Schultz, he needs to be released. Please inform the Kommandant.”

Schultz looked alarmed and scurried off to the Kommandant’s quarters to advise him of the medic’s concern, but he when he returned, he was downcast. Klink was in his bath and had left strict orders not to be disturbed. Newkirk would have to stay put until morning.

“Not good enough,” Hogan said. “Come with me, Schultz.” He took off down the corridor and tore across the compound to the Kommandantur, with Schultz panting behind him. Up the stairs he went, and he pounded at the locked door.

Klink appeared at the door in his bathrobe. “What is it, Hogan?” he asked angrily.

“Newkirk is in the cooler, and he’s very sick. Wilson is requesting that he be released at once,” Hogan said.

Klink smirked. “At 9 o’clock at night? Hogan, is this one of your games? This can wait until morning.” He began to shut the door in his face, but Hogan pushed it back open.

“Sir, we’re already got 13 cases of strep—eight in the infirmary, two in Barracks 3, and three in my barracks,” Hogan protested. "You can't leave a sick man overnight and untended in those conditions."

“Fine. Take him out of the cooler, Schultz,” Klink said. “Return him with Colonel Hogan to Barracks 2. And quarantine that barracks.” He was clutching his throat anxiously as Hogan stalked off.


	19. Fever

Hogan and Wilson walked Newkirk back to Barracks 2 by the dim light of a last quarter moon, holding him between them as he stumbled along. As they entered the room, Newkirk cast his eyes up at his bunk and got in position for the climb, but Hogan grabbed him around the arm and stopped him.

“Uh-uh,” he said. “The other side of the room.”

The men had disassembled two of the bunk beds to create four single beds, which they had crammed into a corner, separated with improvised curtains. It wasn’t much of an isolation ward, but it was the best they could come up with under the circumstances.

Hogan led Newkirk to the bed next to Carter’s and watched him tumble down, still dressed. LeBeau came into the curtained area behind them and stood observing silently as Wilson examined his patient in somewhat better light. LeBeau was trying not to fret, but it wasn’t easy. His Pierre had been in the cooler many times and usually emerged considerably worse for the wear. But this time it had only been two days, and he looked terrible.

Wilson stuck a thermometer in Newkirk’s mouth while he palpated his neck. “Very swollen glands,” he mumbled to himself. He sat watching Newkirk drowse, then withdrew the thermometer. “102,” he said, shaking his head. “Let me have a look, son,” he said, gently prying his mouth open to peer at his throat with a small flashlight. “I’ll run a test in the morning, but I don’t think there’s any doubt, with this strep infection going around. That’s strep,” Wilson said to Hogan and LeBeau as Newkirk drifted off. “I’ll check on him and the rest of these men first thing in the morning,” he added, standing up to leave.

LeBeau hovered over his friend as Hogan saw Wilson out the door. “Colonel,” he whispered as Hogan reappeared, “we should get him out of his clothes.” All four sick men were sleeping and he didn’t want to wake them.

“Let him rest, LeBeau. We’ll help him undress when he wakes up,” Hogan said.

LeBeau sighed. “Alright. At least let’s get his jacket and boots off.” Together he and Hogan peeled Newkirk out of his outer layer, yanked off his boots, and covered him up.

“I don’t like it,” LeBeau said. “Look how red his cheeks are—the others don’t look like that.”

“People respond to fevers differently, LeBeau. He’s sleeping. Let him rest.” Hogan beckoned to him to follow and LeBeau did, but he was looking over his shoulder at Newkirk as he left.

Newkirk passed the night restlessly, his throat throbbing with pain. In the wee hours of the morning, he woke up and felt a hand on his forehead, gently smoothing back his hair. “Mum? Mavis?” he asked.

He heard a small chuckle. “No, _mon pote_ , it is your friend Louis. Here, sit up and drink.”

LeBeau levered him into an upright position and held a glass to his lips, but it was hard for Newkirk to swallow. An oil lamp at the bedside was flickering, sending patches of light around the small space they occupied. LeBeau could see the water dribbling down Newkirk’s neck.

“Oh, no,” LeBeau said. “Let’s get this shirt off and put your nightclothes on, _oui_? You will be much more comfortable,” Newkirk nodded and held up his arms as LeBeau yanked off his pullover.

That was when LeBeau saw it—the redness of a sunburn on Newkirk’s neck and chest. Frantically, he checked his arms, his back, his belly—it was everywhere, and it was hot and rough like sandpaper. LeBeau recognized this from his childhood.

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” he said, “ _c’est la scarlatine_.” Who else had it? He inspected Carter’s face, neck and arms as he slept. Nothing. Garlotti and Broughton—still nothing. Only Pierre.

He tucked Newkirk under a blanket, still shirtless, and went to wake the Colonel. He was back at Newkirk’s bedside when he heard Hogan at the barracks door, imploring Langenscheidt, who was on night duty, to send for Wilson immediately.

**XXX**

Wilson took one look and knew what he was dealing with. “Scarlet fever,” he said simply. “Colonel, he’s got to be isolated—really isolated—or we’re going to have an epidemic on our hands.”

Hogan didn’t hesitate. “My quarters,” he said. “Now.”

By this time, Kinch was awake. He pushed his way to the bedside and lifted Newkirk up.

“Kinch, be careful,” Hogan said. “We can’t have you down.”

“I’ve had this, Sir,” Kinch replied. “I don’t think I can get it again.”

“ _Moi aussi_ ,” LeBeau said.

“It’s not like measles or chicken pox,” Wilson said. “It doesn’t work that way. You can get it more than once, so put him down and go scrub up,” he told Kinch.

“What’s going on?” Newkirk groaned as Kinch lowered him onto Hogan’s spare bunk.

“Shh. Just getting you settled in a different bunk, Pete. Everything’s going to be fine,” Kinch said. He and LeBeau left the room to wash, but they were back again in minutes.

Wilson examined Newkirk again as he laid on Hogan’s bottom bunk, shivering. His fever hat hit 104. His tongue was swollen like a strawberry. His throat was raw and oozing. The rash was bright red and it was spreading. His cheeks were scarlet but a circle around his mouth was pale white.

“How did he get this on top of the strep?” Hogan asked.

“This _is_ the strep, Sir. It’s a complication, though you usually only see it in kids and teenagers,” Wilson said. Hogan, LeBeau and Kinch, standing at a safe distance across the room, all exchanged looks.

“Wilson, um,” Hogan said, “We found out some information about Newkirk last week. He was underage when he enlisted. He’s only 17.”

Wilson rarely gave much away with his expressions, but he jolted at that explanation, then recovered quickly. “That makes sense, then.” After a moment, he looked back at Hogan. “Cripes Colonel, what are you doing with 17-year-old in your operation? He can’t…”

“I know he can’t,” Hogan said. “We’ve made arrangements to get him home. He leaves April 1 for the journey to the coast.”

“April 1? That’s in four days. He’s not going anywhere for at least two weeks, Sir,” Wilson. “I will not allow it.”

“Well, that means it’ll be four weeks, because they only move small boats and subs across the Waddenzee when the skies are dark,” Hogan replied. “Kinch, you’d better alert London that we have to scratch his transport on April 2.”

“Best news I’ve heard all month, Sir,” Kinch said. He took off for the tunnel.

**XXX**

Throughout the day, and for five days afterwards, Newkirk’s fever spiked and fell over and over. His throat ached. His rash itched. His head hurt and his body throbbed from his neck to his toes. He was absolutely miserable.

LeBeau stayed by his side, and when the delirium and pain peaked, he held him tight. Nestled in LeBeau’s arms, Newkirk listened to his heart beat and tried not to cry, but it was hard. He hurt so much, he was so scared, and he knew that soon he’d be alone again. So he clung to LeBeau and didn’t care who saw him holding on and whimpering. He didn’t have to be tough because it just didn’t matter anymore. He let LeBeau tend to his every need, and allowed himself to settle into Colonel Hogan and Kinch’s arms during the brief spells when LeBeau couldn’t be at his side.

Then very late one night the fever finally broke. Newkirk awoke and found himself tucked under Colonel Hogan’s chin, wrapped in his arms, the clean smell of rain hanging in the air. “When am I leaving, Sir?” he managed to whisper. “Is it time to go?”

“Shhh. Just rest, Peter,” Hogan replied. “You’re staying right here with us. You’re not leaving—not if I can help it.”

Newkirk was confused. “Is it my birthday?” he asked. “That was fast.”

“No,” Hogan chuckled. “Not yet. But we’re going to find another way. I promise, you won’t have to go.”

Kinch, standing in the doorway as Newkirk drifted back to sleep, was smiling. But he sidled up to the Colonel and asked the obvious question. “How are you planning to do that, Sir?”

“I have no idea,” Hogan said. “But I’ll come up with something.”


	20. The Urchin

“His fever’s down to 100.6°, Sir,” Wilson said, checking the thermometer as he sat on the edge of Newkirk’s bunk in the Colonel’s quarters. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but it’s progress.” He addressed his patient: “Do you think you can swallow some soup?”

Newkirk nodded. His throat was still sore, but no longer throbbing. His ear hurt and his rash itched, but he was starting to feel hungry. It had been a long week.

“Great,” Wilson said. He stood and put a hand on LeBeau’s shoulder. “He can have broth for now until he’s more comfortable swallowing. Then add in a little something—the Krauts should have some of those spätzle they like so much.”

LeBeau waved his hand dismissively. “Spätzle? Bah. I can make much better _nouilles_ than that with an egg and some flour,” he said.

“Good. And I’ll see what we’ve got in the Red Cross invalid packages. There’s this stuff that only the British guys seem to like called Horlick’s. Maybe he’d drink some of that. You mix it with warm milk.” Wilson’s nose wrinkled at the thought, but Newkirk’s eyes brightened and he smiled for the first time in days.

“Oh, you know what that is?” LeBeau said, happy to see a smile of anticipation on Newkirk’s face. “We’ll take it, Wilson. I’m sure we can get Schultz to bring us some milk when he brings me that egg for his second favorite prisoner,” he said, adding “after me, of course” and winked at Newkirk, who rolled his eyes in return.

Teasing, eye-rolling and food negotiations—things were starting to feel a little more normal in Stalag 13, Hogan thought as he observed the scene from across his small room. He looked over at Newkirk, and was relieved to see him alert. He felt a surge of paternal pride at the sight of him looking better, and relief at knowing that he was on the mend.

As the room cleared out and Newkirk stretched out to rest, Hogan sat at his desk, watching and thinking.

Hogan was keenly aware of how protective he suddenly felt toward Newkirk, although he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. At 34 and single, Hogan certainly didn’t consider himself the fatherly type. He hadn’t even thought of marriage and family until he was in his late 20s. But he wasn’t ready to settle down—not when he was feeling the call of duty and the growing conviction that war was coming.

He had spent his late 20s in London, focused on his responsibilities as a captain in the U.S. Army Air Corps. Hogan had been viewed by his superiors as a rising star ever since he graduated third in his class at West Point, so it was no surprise when he was dispatched in the late spring of 1936 to London as an assistant attaché to the U.S. diplomatic mission. The assignment was prestigious, and the opportunity to learn about the connection between politics and conflict was unparalleled. Less than 600 miles away in Berlin, the German government was running amok. Germany had just reoccupied the Rhineland in violation of the Treaty of Versailles. Temperatures were running high.

Hogan watched up close as Ambassador Robert Bingham pushed for stronger ties between the U.S. and Great Britain and decried the rise of fascism and Nazism. Then along came Ambassador Joseph Kennedy, who got behind Prime Minister Chamberlain’s appeasement strategy. Hogan was dismayed by what he saw as the British government’s failure of nerve, and requested reassignment stateside. By the summer of 1938, he was home, polishing his combat maneuvers; by the spring of 1939, he was back in England, training pilots to take on what was clearly a growing Nazi threat.

Hogan looked back on those days—especially his time in London—with great fondness and had become quite taken with the plucky British people. It was no doubt one reason why he’d taken to Newkirk so quickly. There was something familiar about him.

_A spring morning, Grosvenor Square, 1936. The robins were singing, and Captain Robert E. Hogan was whistling along with them as he walked to work. He felt like a lucky son of a gun. Not even six years out of West Point, and here he was in London, assigned to the U.S. Embassy. With advanced pilot training and assignments in Hawaii, Panama and the Philippines under his belt, Hogan was on a fast track for advancement in the U.S. Army Air Corps._

_Mayfair was one of the prettiest parts of London, but you still had to be careful. In a city of great wealth and crushing poverty, thieves were about, especially in posh areas like Mayfair. So his hackles were raised when he spied a band of ruffians, an adult man and three or four teenagers, who were approaching him and jostling one another as they made their way down the street. They were probably on their way to work at menial jobs—sweeping streets, delivering coal, digging ditches. When they swarmed around him to pass, his hand instinctively went to his wallet. That was when a little boy, tagging along at the back of the pack, sprawled at his feet and began crying._

_“Ow! You tr-trod on my arm!” he protested. He sobbed so pitifully that Hogan picked the little fellow up._

_Captain Hogan’s eyes turned to the crowd that had just passed, but no one stopped to help the child, who was now holding onto his lapels, wide-eyed and weepy. Turning his attention back to the boy in his arms, Hogan asked, “Are you with them?”_

_The little boy nodded seriously. “P-p-put me down so I can catch up, mmmister!” he sniffed. He was a grubby little thing with brown hair and light eyes and looked to be seven or eight, though who knew. Hogan wasn’t an expert on kids._

_“Tell me first—are you all right?” He put the kid down and inspected his badly scraped knee. “Come with me and I’ll tape it up,” he offered. “I work right over there,” he added, waving toward the embassy._

_The boy hesitated as if he was considering the kindness, but he shook his head. “No,” he said, “my old mmmman will be l-looking for me.”_

_“All right, off with you,” Hogan said. “They haven’t gone too far.” He watched as the boy skittered away down the street._

_Hogan was climbing the steps to the embassy a few minutes later when he felt a tug on his sleeve. It was the kid._

_“You dropped this, mmmister,” the boy said. His eyes—very wide and very green, Hogan realized—looked serious and misty as he handed over a leather wallet. Hogan patted his pocket. He hadn’t even realized it was missing. What a swell kid!_

_“Thanks,” Hogan said as the boy ran down the street, pausing to peek over his shoulder as he reached the street corner. As Hogan settled into his office, he took off his jacket and noticed one of his captain bars was missing. He must have lost it in the scuffle._

Hogan emerged from his daydream and realized he hadn’t thought of that incident for years, although it had long bothered him. He wasn’t sure if he’d been pickpocketed or just careless enough to drop his wallet. Either way, it surprised him every time he thought of it that the kid had returned with his wallet. If he’d stolen it, why didn’t he keep it? And if he found it, what made him so sure it was Hogan’s and what gave him the nerve to run after an adult?

Hogan pulled out a book, and took out the note that was tucked inside it. It was the letter Newkirk had written; Hogan hadn’t destroyed it, because he hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

Newkirk was right; he’d earned the right to stay, even though London still disagreed. Hogan knew he’d have to negotiate that. But Newkirk didn’t just want to stay; he also emphatically did not want to go home. Not to London, but home. What was he avoiding there?

Hogan’s eyes went back to the same passage in the letter that he’d read dozens of times:

_All my friends are here and being with them teaches me to be a beter man. Also, my dad will hurt me and you won’t._

Yes, he had no doubt that Kinch, LeBeau and Carter were a positive influence, three good men that Newkirk had already begun to emulate. But what was he saying about his father? Was he afraid of him? He read the sentence again:

 _Also, my dad will hurt me and you won’t_.

Whatever Newkirk was saying, it was clear he had complete trust in one man – Colonel Robert E. Hogan – to look after him. And Hogan was not about to let him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew about Joseph Kennedy, but didn't know much about the Ambassador before him until I decided to research it. I like the idea that Hogan was already in England as early as 1936 when the signs were increasing that a war would be coming. 
> 
> And yes, that' s Newkirk. He would have been 10, not 7 or 8, but I think he was probably a scrawny, underfed little guy.


	21. Bear Necessity

It was a rainy April afternoon, and Hogan had managed to grab half an hour to relax on his bunk with a book. He had his space to himself again. After two weeks of illness and recuperation, Newkirk had just moved back to the main barracks, where his frustration of the moment was that his rash was starting to peel.

Things were starting to get back to normal, if the rising tensions between LeBeau and Newkirk were any indication, Hogan thought with amusement. Through the wall, he could hear a lecture underway.

“Stop scratching yourself,” LeBeau was telling Newkirk. “You’re not a dog.”

“No, I’m a bleeding lizard,” Newkirk griped. “It itches, Louis! Is it coming off in patches or in layers?”

“Both,” LeBeau said thoughtfully. “Just sit down, I’ll put some lotion on it. Come on, Pierre, _assis-toi_.”

“Arse-y what?”

“ _Tais-toi_ ,” LeBeau said with an audible smack to the side of Newkirk’s head. Yeah, Newkirk must be feeling better, or at a minimum LeBeau was.

In the midst of that riveting conversation, Kinch slipped into Hogan’s quarters, and he didn’t look pleased. “Message from London, Sir,” he said. “General Putnam says they can transport Newkirk May 4, which would require us to get him to the coast on May 3. That’s a little over two weeks.”

“Dammit,” Hogan said, sitting up on his bunk. “That General Putnam is one heck of a bureaucrat.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Remind me, Kinch, why are we talking to him about this, anyway?”  
  
“You said it yourself, Sir—he’s in charge of staffing, Colonel,” Kinch replied.

“Yeah, well, I said that when I thought he was going to do us some good,” Hogan grumbled. “Well, Peter’s not going,” he added firmly, bouncing down to the floor where Kinch was standing. “He can sit on the sidelines for the next eight months, but he’s not going. How many people did General Putnam talk to, anyway?”

“Quite a few. But not General Butler. And not Air Marshal Woodhouse,” Kinch said. “Nobody with more than one star, according to my sources.”

Leave it to Kinch to have the answers. Hogan nodded, feeling a surge of optimism. General Putnam hadn’t addressed the matter with the two three-star general officers who had the most in-depth knowledge of Papa Bear’s operation and its strategic significance—the two men who knew the composition of the team and the credentials of each of its players.

“Well, then, I need some time with General Butler, don’t I? Can you connect me with him soon?”  
  
“Already done, Sir,” Kinch said with a grin. “He’ll be available for you at 2200 hours.”

Hogan should have known it; once again, Kinch was a step ahead. “Good man,” Hogan said. “And maybe I’ll reach out to Air Marshal Woodhouse to be on the safe side.”

“Yes, Sir, that’s all set for 2300 hours,” Kinch said.

“Why do I even ask?” Hogan said with a broad smile, thumping Kinch on the arm.

**XXX**

“What is this I hear about Rupert Bear, Papa Bear?” General Butler began. “He’s that young?”

“He is, Jaguar,” Hogan replied. He rolled his eyes at the code name. General Butler had a lot of great qualities, but he bore very little resemblance to a sleek, muscular jungle beast.

“But he’s important to you,” Butler added.

“Rupert’s skills are unique, and they’re vital to our team and to the war effort, Sir.”

“He’s a cub,” Butler said.

Hogan sighed. “In some ways, he is. But he’s nearly of age. And he’s mature and battle-tested. He was on the ground for Plan D. He’s been here for two years. He’s withstood interrogations and more and he’s been on more missions than any other cub here.”

“Tough little bear,” Butler said with admiration.

Hogan laughed. “That he is, Sir. Jaguar, we can’t easily replace him,” Hogan said. “And in a few more months…”

“I understand, Papa Bear. He’ll be old enough soon. But to knowingly let him put himself in harm’s way when he is a cub… how can we look the other way?”

Hogan knew he had to lay it on the line and make sure Butler heard him loud and clear, so he spelled out his objective. “I want him to stay. I can manage the risks,” Hogan said. “I will take personal responsibility for his safety.”

First Hogan heard silence, then the tapping of a pencil on a table. “I believe you do, could, and would, Papa Bear. And removing him from the den is risky on many levels.” He went silent again. “You’re planning to speak to Panther?” Butler finally asked.

“Yes, Sir, in about …” Hogan checked his watch “forty-five minutes, Sir.”

“Rupert’s one of his. I’ll say my part, but you understand that Panther will have to decide,” Butler said.

“I do understand, Sir. If you have any advice for me, I’ll take it. And I’ll make my best case, Sir.”

“Make sure Panther understands that you will protect this cub. Convincing him won’t be easy—he has young ones of his own,” Butler added. “A he-cub the same age, actually. Good luck, Papa Bear. And one more thing before you go.”

“Sir?”

“Next time, don’t waste your breath with the bureaucrats. This is _our_ mission. They can’t possibly understand what’s at stake because they don’t have the information we have.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir, I should have come directly to you,” Hogan replied. His heart didn’t know whether to sink or leap. He’d disappointed his boss by not bringing the Newkirk matter directly to him. On the other hand, he was encouraged. General Butler seemed to be pulling for him.

“Yes, you should have. Don’t forget it.”

**XXX**

Kinch disconnected the call for Hogan. “That seemed to go well, Sir,” he said.

“I think it did. But General Butler was very clear that Air Marshal Woodhouse will make the call. What do we know about him, Kinch?”

“As General Butler said, he’s got boys of his own. Two are at Eton—a 15 year old and a 17 year old.”

Hogan frowned. Yes, Air Marshal Woodhouse would clearly have his own 17-year-old in mind during any conversation about Newkirk.

“And there’s another thing General Butler didn’t mention,” Kinch added. Hogan looked at him curiously. “His oldest son, a fighter pilot. He died in the Battle of Britain. He was two weeks shy of 20, Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought Papa Bear’s cubs should have secret bear code names, and Rupert Bear is a British comic book character from the 1920s, so he seemed perfect for Newkirk. Rupert is a smart and resourceful little bear who has big adventures and regularly outwits villains.
> 
> Also, I read on Wikipedia that Plan D was a codename for the Dunkirk invasion. That's what Hogan's talking about when he mentions Newkirk being battle tested.


	22. Grilled

“It’s always a messy business, sending boys into battle,” Air Marshal Woodhouse said. “Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, that’s bad enough, Papa Bear. But a boy this young? It’s unthinkable.”

“I recognize that, Sir, and I don’t take it lightly,” Colonel Hogan replied. “But as I mentioned, Sir, in this case, the boy in question volunteered.”

“Yes, at fourteen, the age at which boys know absolutely everything,” Woodhouse scoffed. “Papa Bear, he was not able to make a sensible choice. It’s disgraceful that we’re just learning about this situation.”

Hogan let out a deep breath and exchanged a look with Kinch, who was quietly monitoring the transmission. This was not going well. Air Marshal Woodhouse was known to be a stubborn man. Less than five minutes into their discussion, he seemed to have made his mind up. Whatever you do, Hogan told himself, don’t contradict him. Don’t use the word “but.”

“I don’t disagree, Panther,” Hogan allowed. “And we can’t change the past. The question is what to do with him going forward, and I want him to stay. He’s been extremely valuable to our efforts, and I expect he will continue to be.”

“He should be home with his father and mother,” Woodhouse said. “It’s shocking that _they_ haven’t demanded it.”

“I can understand why you, as a father, would say that,” Hogan said diplomatically. “Rupert’s upbringing has been very difficult, though. He feels he’s better off in the RAF, Sir, and he says his mother agrees. And his father, well… according to Rupert Bear, his father is an unfavorable influence,” Hogan said.

“Meaning what?” Woodhouse said.

“He’s a criminal,” Hogan said.

“Yes, well so is Rupert Bear. What would you expect?” Woodhouse replied sharply.

Hogan was stunned. Was that really how Woodhouse saw Newkirk? Perhaps he didn’t understand Newkirk’s role on his team as well as Hogan supposed he did. Don’t contradict, he reminded himself. Don’t contradict.

“Panther, I think there’s another way of looking at him. It’s true that Rupert Bear has a past. He was, unfortunately, corrupted as a young child. He acquired his skills because his father exposed him to criminal elements. That is not who this boy – this young man – is,” Hogan said. “He is highly intelligent and able to think on his feet. He’s committed to our mission, and he’s deeply loyal. As an airman, he has served with distinction, and he’s survived treatment and conditions that would have crushed a lesser man. He’s a soldier. We may not like the circumstances under which he became one, but he is one.”

“But his age, man!” Woodhouse objected.

“He’ll be of age in a few months,” Hogan replied. “Panther, I am not asking to continue having him serve on missions while he’s under age. I’m asking to keep him here until he can serve. I'll take personal responsibility for his well-being.” He added another twig to the fire: “Explaining his departure presents significant difficulties.”

“You’re a clever man, Papa Bear. I hardly think that’s an obstacle,” Woodhouse snapped.

Hogan shook his head; he’d hold fire on this point for now, but Woodhouse was wrong. Ruining Klink’s perfect escape record was out of the question; palming him off on another camp was just as risky, because Klink knew exactly who he was, and despite appearances to the contrary, Klink was no fool.

The line went quiet, and Hogan heard Woodhouse huffing and thumbing through pages in Newkirk’s file. Whether he was angry or something else was anyone’s guess. When the Air Marshal finally spoke, he sounded calmer.

“You say the home life is not stable?” Woodhouse said, rustling the papers. “Ah, I see,” he continued. “In and out of approved schools. Only 10 when he went in, dear God. The file says … surrendered as ‘ungovernable’ by his father.” He put the papers down. “Ungovernable,” he spat. “What sort of father says that? Is he ungovernable, Papa Bear?”

“He is not, Sir. He follows orders. He listens to me and works well on a team,” Hogan said.

“Really, Papa Bear? Does he have any shortcomings at all? Or do all the model soldiers spring from poor, negligent families after they’ve been packed off for a few years in an approved school? Perhaps we’re overlooking an obvious source of future leaders.” Hogan could hear the sarcasm dripping from Woodhouse’s voice.

“Of course he has shortcomings,” Hogan said. “He smokes too much and his spelling is terrible. He bites his fingernails and he argues with his friends over inconsequential things. He’s not perfect; no one is.”

“Yes, it sounds like he’s seventeen,” Woodhouse said with a bitter laugh. Hogan could hear him fiddling with the papers again. “And he’s got a stammer—how bad is that?”

“It doesn’t interfere with his work if that’s what you’re asking, Panther,” Hogan replied.

“That’s good, but it’s not what I asked,” Woodhouse said.

Honesty was the best policy; Hogan was confident of that. “He does stammer, and it’s fairly frequent. He’s more fluent when he is with our team. His speech difficulties are more pronounced with others or when he’s anxious about something,” he explained.

“Well, don’t you consider that an issue with Jerry?” Woodhouse exclaimed.

“Rupert is fluent in German and he doesn’t stammer when he speaks it,” Hogan said.

“Extraordinary,” Woodhouse said.

“I’m told that’s quite common, actually,” Hogan replied. “He is working hard to overcome the stammer.”

“And it’s never interfered in the field?”

“Not a single time,” Hogan said confidently.

“It’s never given him away?” Woodhouse asked.

“Not at all, Sir,” Hogan replied.

Woodhouse went quiet. Then he said firmly, “I want to speak with him myself, Papa Bear.”

Hogan didn’t need to wave to Kinch to go get Newkirk. He was already on his way up the ladder.

**XXX**

Newkirk arrived in the radio room in the tunnel, sleepy eyed and dressed for bed. He sat shivering in his nightshirt on a stool until Hogan grabbed a blanket from the supplies they kept in the tunnels for visitors and wrapped it around his shoulders. Kinch cut the microphone for a moment as Hogan explained what was happening.

“It’s Air Marshal Woodhouse,” he began.

“Kinch already told me,” Newkirk replied. He smiled as bravely as he could, although inside he was shaking, and not from the cold. Peter Newkirk didn’t speak to Air Marshals every day and he knew without being told that the stakes were high. “Best foot forward,” he said.

Hogan smiled back. He really did have a good team. “Exactly.” He nodded to Kinch, who switched the mic back on.

“Panther, I have Rupert Bear for you.”

“Very good, Papa Bear,” Woodhouse replied. “Rupert,” he continued, “I have a boy your age. He’s at school, not at war. Why shouldn’t you be at home with your mother?”

“I’m s-s-supporting myself and helping to support the family, Sir,” Newkirk replied.

“You could do that at home, young man,” Woodhouse said.

“P-perhaps I could now, but three years ago I couldn’t. N-n-not honestly, anyway,” Newkirk replied. “I was on a bad path at home, Sir. J-j-j-joining up gave me a chance to better mmmmyself.”

“You’re stammering. Am I making you nervous?”

“A bit, Sir, but I st-stammer whether I’m nervous or not. It j-just happens,” Newkirk replied.

“Don’t you want to come home and see your mother?”

“I’d like to see my mum, b-but no, Sir, I want to stay and do my job. I don’t w-want to come home,” Newkirk replied.

“Why’s that? Are you afraid of something? Or someone?”

Newkirk winced at the question, but he saw Hogan nodding at him. “Just tell him,” he was mouthing.

“Yes, Sir, I am afraid of someone. I’m afraid of my old mmman. He’s cruel to me, Sir, and that’s a fffact. But that’s not the main reason I w-want to stay. Sir, I w-want to help us defeat the enemy, and I know I can. And I w-want to be a b-better person than my father raised me to be. I w-want to stay with mmmmy mates. And, and, and Papa Bear,” Newkirk replied. “I’ll see me mum and my sisters and brothers after w-w-w-we win this war.”

“You have brothers?” Woodhouse asked. His loss of his eldest son—and its impact on his younger sons—was fresh on his mind.

“Two little ones, yes Sir. I w-want this over before they have to fffight.”

“Hmm. How old are they?”

“Thirteen and eleven, Sir,” Newkirk replied.

Woodhouse sighed. “They’re very young, Rupert Bear. They need their older brother. Give me back to Papa Bear.”

“Sir, yes, Sir.” Newkirk handed the headset over to Hogan, looking dispirited. He knew his brothers needed him; that was never in question. The only question in his mind was where he could be most useful, and knew the right place for him was here in Stalag 13.

As Colonel Hogan continued his conversation with the Air Marshal, Kinch walked Newkirk over to the ladder to send him back up.

“Did I s-s-say something wrong, Kinch?”

Kinch wrapped an arm around Newkirk’s shoulder.

“No,” he said, “that was perfect. You told him honestly what you were thinking. That’s all you can do.”

Newkirk looked at Kinch for reassurance, and found it in the warmth of his smile. “Go on, get up there. We’ll be along soon,” Kinch said softly.

As Kinch watched Newkirk climb away, his mind swam with memories of all the missions their youngest team member had successfully completed, and all the ways his quick thinking and nimble fingers had kept them out of a jam. Then he turned and walked over to the table where Hogan was concluding his conversation. He concentrated on keeping his back straight and shoulders back. It wouldn’t do to let the Colonel see him slumping.


	23. Snakebit

Uncertainty hung in the air as a cold April morning rolled around. Newkirk, though still feeling shaky, stood for rollcall for the first time in two weeks. When he returned to the barracks after morning chores, the only thing he was absolutely sure of was that he was shedding. His fingers, his palms, his feet, his neck, and places he didn’t want to think about were all peeling as the dry skin from his rash flaked off.

He took a seat at the table. He was noticeably thin and pale, and he looked grateful as LeBeau slipped a cup of ginger tea under his nose, flavored with honey that he had acquired from who knows where. Although he was feeling a bit better, Newkirk felt embarrassed to know that he was a splotchy mess. Standing by his side, LeBeau was scrubbing dead skin from his face and neck and rubbing it with lotion.

Carter was a week ahead of Newkirk in his recovery from strep, so he was looking perkier than his pal, but when wasn’t that true? He watched in fascination as LeBeau assisted Newkirk in his peeling process.

“It’s a really good thing I’m not as young as you are or I might have come down with scarlet fever too, huh, Newkirk? Wilson said usually only kids get it, which is why LeBeau and Kinch and Colonel Hogan were OK even though they were taking care of you,” Carter blathered. “Does it feel weird to shed your skin like that?”

“Yes,” Newkirk replied. “And itchy.” But the weirdest feeling, he thought, was the unavoidable fact that Carter was actually, somehow, older than he was. He’d known that all along, of course, but somehow it never felt real. He was nothing like Carter. He wasn’t naïve; he was street smart. He didn’t natter; he took time and formed his thoughts. He’d served his country sooner and been a prisoner longer. He was stealthy, not clumsy. And he could solve all sorts of problems, including ones that required magic fingers.

“Did you ever collect snakeskins when you were a kid, Newkirk?” Carter asked. Then he laughed. “Of course, you still are a kid. Wow.” Newkirk stared at him, thinking Carter had the most unusual conversational openers of anyone he’d ever met.

“Can’t ssssay that I did, Andrew, given the appalling lack of rolling mmmmeadows and woodland in the East End of London,” Newkirk replied, choosing to ignore Carter’s observation and focus on his question. “B-but I expect you’re about to tell me you have done.”

“Oh heck yeah. Late autumn, once the snakes go into hibernation but before the snows come, that’s the best time to hunt for them. Me and my cousins, we used to compete to see who could get the longest ones, or find skins with heads on ‘em. Those were the best.”

“And you’re th-th-thinking of this because I’m sitting here mmmmolting, are you?”

“You do look a little like a snake with all those layers coming off,” Carter said. “Does it hurt?”

“Carter, you j-j-just asked me that, and I said it’s itchy,” Newkirk answered, starting to sound irritated.

“No, I asked if it felt weird. Hurt is different than weird. Weird is just …weird,” Carter said.

Newkirk stared. He knew he was not the most fluent speaker, but at least he was articulate and had a vocabulary that included three-syllable words and many alternatives to “weird.” Carter, on the other hands, was talking in circles.

“Righto,” Newkirk said. “Nnno, it doesn’t hurt much, except somewhat on my palms. They’re a bit raw.” He inspected his hands and flexed his fingers, making sure they’d be ready for any mischief he needed to commit.

LeBeau peered over his shoulder. “I have a lotion for that,” he said, then clapped Newkirk on the shoulders. “Relax with your tea. We’ll work on your back and chest later when it’s a bit warmer in here. Garlotti just put some wood on the fire.”

“Charming,” Newkirk muttered irritably, but a soft smile gave him away. He appreciated everything LeBeau had done for him and was still doing. While he didn’t like anyone thinking he needed looking after, deep inside he didn’t mind needing LeBeau. They understood one another and for all his mother hen behaviors, LeBeau never forgot that Newkirk was tough. LeBeau, for his part, was happy to hear a little of Newkirk’s spirit returning. He’d been knocked very low.

Carter, meanwhile, was keeping up his monologue.

“My favorite snake’s the western milksnake. Boy, what a beauty that one is—bands of black, red, black, yellow, black, red, black, yellow, always in that order! A little pointed head and its scales are so shiny…”

“It is p-p-poisonous?” Newkirk ventured. All his images of where Carter lived had been formed by cowboy movies. He pictured North Dakota as a wild and dangerous place, populated by desperadoes who shaved their stubble with a blowtorch, and Carter’s chosen topic of conversation wasn’t doing anything to ease his mind.

“Oh, heck, no. The only poisonous one we’ve got is the prairie rattlesnake. You know they can climb trees and bushes? You have to be real careful. This one time, my cousin Billy was walking past Mrs. Wilbert’s garden on his way home from school, and he looks up at her willow tree. Well, next thing you know, wham! He was down on the ground, snakebit. Right on the nose.”

“I think I’d better lie down,” Newkirk said woozily.

“You’ve been up long enough, standing outside in the cold, and you need to rest quietly,” LeBeau agreed. “And Carter, stop it. All this talk of snakes is making both of us ill. We’re city boys, right, Pierre?”

“Yes, we are. There are no snakes in the East End. Rats, yes, but d-d-definitely no snakes,” Newkirk grumbled as LeBeau led him back to Colonel Hogan’s quarters for a rest.

"Snakes would actually help a lot with controlling the rat population," Carter was saying to no one in particular as LeBeau and Newkirk walked off. 

Hogan was in his room with Kinch, going over plans for that night’s mission. They were arranging to connect with an Underground agent who was passing along blueprints for new power plant.

“Mon colonel, can Pierre rest in here?” LeBeau asked. Hogan simply nodded and waved, so LeBeau settled Newkirk onto the bunk. Everyone had felt the cold nipping at their bones this morning, and Hogan had already told LeBeau to make sure Newkirk took time to recover.

Finally, as Hogan wrapped up his discussion with Kinch, he turned around. “How’s the shedding going?” he jibed.

“Apparently I remind Carter of a snake,” Newkirk replied. Kinch shuddered, but Hogan was undeterred.

“Red and yellow, kill a fellow. Red and black, friend of Jack,” Hogan said mysteriously.

“What?” Newkirk and Kinch said simultaneously, as LeBeau chimed in with “Quoi?”

“That’s how you know the difference between a poisonous coral snake and the ones that look similar,” Hogan said. “I made Eagle Scout,” he added with a shrug.

“Yeah, like the western milksnake!” Carter said, having arrived on the scene. “Like I was saying, black, red, black, yellow, black, red. See, they’re harmless, but if the red touched the yellow it would be a real different story.”

“Carrrrrter,” Newkirk pleaded. “D-d-do you have to go on and on about the snakes?”

Carter looked startled for a moment, but then his face softened. “Hey buddy. I hope I didn’t scare you. I kind of forget that you’re even younger than my kid brother and boy I used to scare the pants off him with the stories I’d tell! My mom used to have to send me out to milk Molly and Betsy—they’re our dairy cows—just to give him time to calm down!”

“I’m nnnnnot scared, you twit!” Newkirk snapped. “I j-j-just don’t want to hear you nattering about st-stupid snakes! And st-st-st-stop saying that I’m younger than you are. I’m not, at least not in any way that really c-c-c-counts.” He was on his feet now, and he was clenching his fists.

Carter nodded and smiled a little. “Sorry, I get it. My little brother used to get really cranky right before his naps.” At that, Newkirk pounced at Carter; LeBeau held him back.

“Carter? Out,” Hogan said simply. Carter looked stunned and hurt. As he turned and left, Hogan added, “Kinch, LeBeau—go with him. Explain it to him, please?”

Hogan turned and settled Newkirk back on the bed, but now he wouldn’t lie down.

“I don’t need a bleeding nap,” Newkirk muttered. 

“Of course you don’t,” Hogan said in a soothing tone. “Peter, you know Carter doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just trying to make sense of this situation. It’s taken everyone by surprise.”

Newkirk just shrugged. Hogan decided to wait and let silence have its say. Finally, Newkirk spoke up.

“He never treated me like a k-k-kid before this happened,” Newkirk said. “Why did this have to happen? If Martin had never showed up here…” He bit his lip, trying to find the words for how frustrated and angry he felt. “It’s not fffair,” he finally blurted out.

Hogan sat beside him on the bunk and put an arm around his shoulder. “No, it’s not fair,” he agreed. “Nothing about this is fair.”

“I don’t want to go, Sir,” Newkirk said fiercely. “I’m as good as anyone on the team. I shouldn’t have to go.”

“I’m working on it, Peter,” Hogan said. He took Newkirk by the chin and looked him right in the eye. “I mean it. Do you trust me?”

Newkirk nodded rapidly. “Yes, Gov. I trust you.”

Hogan released his face, and pulled him closer. “Alright, then, just relax. Close your eyes. I’ve got this. You leave it to me.” He wrapped both arms around Newkirk, the way he had a week earlier when he was in the throes of a fever. Newkirk settled into the embrace, letting his eyes close for a moment, feeling his muscles relax. He was tired enough to fall asleep, but he wouldn’t let himself do that. Be a man, he thought. And as he thought like a man, he suddenly pulled himself upright.

“Sir, when will you know what they’ve decided in London?”

“Soon,” Hogan said. As Newkirk rolled his eyes, Hogan bit back a laugh at how young that made him look. “I know it’s not a satisfactory answer, but soon.”

“Alright, Gov. I’ll have to wwwwait. I don’t think I have mmmmuch choice, do I?” Newkirk said. “I still want to do as much as I can for our mission, Sir. Don’t cut me out.”

“I have no plans to cut you out, Peter. Now try to rest a little, OK? You’re still not 100%.” He got up and let Newkirk get himself settled on the bunk just as LeBeau slipped back in the room.

“Did you talk to my very wise big brother?” Newkirk snapped.

“Yes, Pierre, Kinch and I talked to him.”

“And?”

“He agreed that _his_ little brother had not been through basic training, had not fought at Dunkirk, and had never been interrogated by the Gestapo,” LeBeau said. “He saw that there is a difference between you and his _little_ brother. One is a boy; one is a man.”

“Good,” Newkirk said as he rolled onto his side to face the wall and pulled a blanket around himself. “That’s exactly right.” Then he yawned and added softly, “Thanks, Louis.”

“It’s nothing, mon pote,” LeBeau replied.

LeBeau and Hogan sat quietly at Hogan’s table as Newkirk drifted to sleep. Once they heard him snoring lightly, LeBeau had more to say.

“I also told him that his brother had never slept on the streets. Or learned to pick pockets at the age of five. Or bought medicine on the black market to keep a sick sister alive. Or hauled a drunken father home from the pub. Or learned a trade at a school for wayward boys.”

“Everything is different with Peter,” Hogan agreed.

“He’s lived harder and faster than most men twice his age,” LeBeau said. He stopped and looked at Colonel Hogan thoughtfully. “You’re twice his age,” he pointed out.

“Yes, I am. And I agree with everything you just said. I got to be a kid when I was young. He didn’t.”

LeBeau crossed the room to sit beside Newkirk on the bed. He touched his back as he breathed and tucked the blanket around him.

“I take care of him because he deserves to simply be a boy now and then,” LeBeau said quietly.

Hogan nodded. He hadn’t thought of it that way, but that was exactly how he felt, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snakebit is American slang for unlucky. The line about "desperadoes shaving their stubble with a blowtorch" is based on Desperate Dan, a Wild West character from the British comic book The Dandy, which Newkirk mentioned in Chapter 15.


	24. Compromise

The morning had been cold, but the afternoon was brighter. Newkirk strolled out of the barracks, stretching, yawning, and lighting a cigarette. LeBeau was a few paces behind him, and they were chatting and joking.

LeBeau and Newkirk sidled up to Langenscheidt and Spitz, the two guards on duty, and easily started chatting them up. Newkirk offered a cigarette; LeBeau provided a light. In two minutes flat, they extracted details about the evening’s guard rotation and strolled off nonchalantly to lounge against the side of the barracks. Soon Hogan came out to join them.

“They’re on until 2300, and then Pfaff and Baumgartner will replace them,” Newkirk said quietly.

“Pfaff’s the one who’s blind in one eye from the last war,” LeBeau said. “Baumgartner’s the one with the limp—same war.”

“And Spitz was carrying this,” Newkirk added. He extracted a small card from his breast pocket. It was the timetable for the Hammelburg to Dusseldorf trains. Rail schedules changed frequently and having the latest one helped with their precision targeting of any trains that had military value.

“Dated today. Nice work,” Hogan said quietly, with a wink at Newkirk. “I’m heading below. Signal Kinch if you need us.”

Hogan arrived at Kinch’s communications table and flipped the timetable to him. “Civilian train schedule, courtesy of Peter’s sticky fingers,” he said. “I don’t know whether to thank him or spank him. I opted for thanks.”

Kinch inspected it. “It’s useful. Filching things is something he can do without having to leave camp, Sir. Why not just let him?”

“I don’t need him getting in trouble right now, not while the brass is trying to decide his fate,” Hogan replied. “On the other hand… dammit. We need him for this little stuff just as much as we need him for the big stuff.”

“We might get an answer tonight, Colonel. General Butler asked to speak with you at 2330 hours.”

“Hmm. That means I’ll have to send someone else out to pick up those power station plans. LeBeau and Carter can do it,” Hogan said.

“I wouldn’t send those two, Sir. They’re really on each other’s nerves. Maybe try LeBeau and Olsen.”

**XXX**

Soon after evening rollcall at 2130 hours, Newkirk was in the tunnel to outfit and dispatch LeBeau and Olsen for their mission. Colonel Hogan was nearby, pacing. Carter and Kinch were above, watching the compound while Garlotti and Foster minded the door.

Hogan slowed his walk to watch Newkirk at work.

“Not that j-j-jacket,” Newkirk told Olsen as he pulled a favorite outfit off the rack. “It’s br-bright out tonight, and that thing’s got br-br-brass buttons. They’ll catch the mmmoonlight.” He reached back to pull out a dark tweed overcoat. “This one’s better. Leather buttons. Nnnno reflection and no noise either. And it’ll fffffit you like a glove.”

He turned to LeBeau. “Now, Louis, if he’s going to wear that, you can’t wwwwear your duffel coat. You need ssssomething smarter. I’ve a nice ch-ch-charcoal grey suit in your size.”

 _He knows his stuff_ , Hogan thought. _And God, we need him_.

Then, just as quickly, guilt ravaged him. _I’m being selfish_ , he thought. _And look at him_. _I can see it now. He’s so damned young._ Newkirk was watching as LeBeau buttoned up. He had his fist under his nose, and he was rubbing his thumb at the corner of his mouth the way he so often did when he was anxious.

“I should be going with you,” Newkirk told LeBeau.

“Another time,” LeBeau said, patting his arm.

“Sorry, pal,” Olsen replied. “I know you wish it was you. Me too. I’d rather stay here in my nice cozy bunk, counting my lice,” he deadpanned.

That helped. Newkirk and LeBeau both laughed. But as they climbed up the ladder, Newkirk’s fist was back in place—at least for a moment, until Hogan caught his eye, and the Corporal self-consciously withdrew it.

While Hogan continued pacing, Newkirk hung up clothes and then ambled over to the Colonel. “Waiting for the General’s call, Sir? May I wait with you?”

Hogan stopped in his path and studied Newkirk’s expression. Anxious, yes. But also trusting and earnest. “Sure,” he said. “Stay here with me.”

While Hogan paced, Newkirk pulled a small shiny object out of the seam of his jacket and turned it over and over in his hand. _For luck_ , he thought as he rubbed it. _Make them say I can stay_.

Hogan paced a little longer and then sat down at Kinch’s table. “Sit down. Level with me, Peter,” he said gently. “How bad would it be if you were home?”

Newkirk looked down at his hands, clutched his lucky piece in fist, and suddenly seemed miles away.

_The boy ran down the street from the American Embassy, and kept running to avoid his crowd. They would manage to collect a day’s wages without him. He ran clear to Oxford Street, then squirmed onto a crowded bus by holding the arm of a little boy who was clutching his mother’s hand. As long as he was quiet and kept his face down and the conductor didn’t notice his torn-up shoes, he’d get on for free._

_He could escape for only so long, though. When his father came through the door that night, drunk and rowdy, he muscled past his wife and daughters in search of his oldest son. He dragged him out of kitchen by his ear, taking him into the sitting room and closing the door behind him. “Think you’re so clever, running off, do you?” he asked the 10-year-old. He lit a cigarette, hauled the boy across his knee, and made him wait while he smoked. Then he yanked his shorts down, took the fag and pressed it into the pink flesh of his bottom, again and again and again._

“Peter?” Hogan asked, shaking Newkirk’s shoulder. “Hey, hey, come back. What are you thinking about?”

Newkirk shook himself to clear the cobwebs. “Sorry, Sir, my mind drifted a bit. My old man… well, he gets drunk and then he d-does things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Lessons,” Newkirk replied. “J-j-just believe me, Sir, please. Bad things. My mum threw him out, but he’ll be b-back if he catches wind that I’m there. He’ll have j-j-j-j-jobs for me to do but I’ll be in trouble no matter what I do.” He paused and then added in a whisper, “I don’t th-th-think he’s got to my brothers yet. I’ll kill him if he tries.”

Hogan was trying desperately to read between the lines; the intense stuttering told him he’d struck a nerve. “Does he beat you?” he blurted out.

Newkirk looked stunned. “Yes, of course,” he said, as if that went without saying. “He’s my father.”

“Fathers aren’t supposed to beat their children, Peter,” Hogan said, his voice suddenly shrill.

Newkirk looked down and he struggled to find the words. “I, I, I, I know that, Sir. But they do anyway.”

“Not all do!” Hogan protested.

“No, I hope not,” Newkirk replied. He could feel his emotions starting to slip like mud down a hill in the rain. “It’s alright, Sir, I can take a beating.” He looked up. “It’s been good practice for this place, really,” he added.

Now Hogan was stunned. Was he really suggesting Gestapo interrogations were a breeze because his father had beat him? He was out of words. He stood up and wrapped his arms around Newkirk.

“I could hit b-back, but my mum doesn’t want me to,” Newkirk said into Hogan’s shoulder. “And she’s right—that makes everything w-w-worse.” He was quiet for a long while as Hogan held on to him. Then he piped up, “It’s getting hard to breathe, Sir.”

Hogan laughed and let him go just as the creak and groan of a rising bunkbed sounded. Kinch was on his way down.

“Fifteen minutes,” he told Colonel Hogan. “Oh, hey, Pete,” he added. “Everything OK?”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Newkirk smiled. He started fidgeting again with his lucky piece. Hogan saw it glint.

“What’s that?” Hogan asked.

Newkirk opened his hand. “It’s silly, I know. Just something I keep for luck.”

“Captain’s bars. Huh. Where’d you get them?” Kinch asked.

“I found it a long time ago,” Newkirk replied.

“They’re American,” Hogan said, taking them out of Newkirk’s hand to examine them. He placed it back and looked at the Corporal quizzically. “You didn’t knock off one of our Captains, did you?” he asked with a grin.

Newkirk smiled back. “No Sir. True story, I came across it in London when I was a lad. The shape caught my eye so I kept it for luck. There was a pin on back, but I ground that off years ago. I keep it in here.” He poked a finger inside the hem of his jacket and tucked the bars back inside.

Hogan was giving Newkirk an intense look and another question was forming on his lips when the call from London rang through.

“General Butler for you, Sir,” Kinch announced. He held an earpiece closer to his ear. “And Air Marshal Woodhouse,” he added. He handed a headset to Hogan and turned up the receiver so he and Newkirk could both hear.

“Papa Bear, Jaguar here. We’ve had a long discussion. Given the difficulties of explaining the removal Rupert Bear from your location, we’re going to try keeping him in place for now.”

Newkirk’s jaw fell, and his eyes shone with excitement. Kinch pulled him in for a hug. Hogan sighed with relief. He had been afraid to hope that the General Butler was on his side, and he had to believe he’d worked hard to convince Air Marshal Woodhouse.

“But there are some significant provisos,” Butler continued. “Panther will explain them.”

Woodhouse wasted no time. “You are to keep this cub safe at all costs, Papa Bear,” he said. “He is not to be placed at any risk until he is of age, do you hear me? This means no active role in any mission. Find something else for him to do. We are British, Sir, and we are not putting a 17 year old into a dangerous situation, no matter how resilient he is.”

“Roger. Define ‘active role,’ Sir,” Hogan responded.

“Don’t play at semantics with me, Papa Bear,” Woodhouse said severely. “You know what risk is. You know what danger is. If he is hurt, you will be responsible, and I promise you, Papa Bear, I will personally see to it that you are held to account. We are making a big concession to your professionalism by leaving him in your custody.”

“My custody,” Hogan repeated.

“Yes. We have been in touch with the family, and as of this moment, you are Rupert’s legal guardian. You are responsible for all decisions related to this boy, and I do mean boy. You will get him to his 18th birthday unharmed.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hogan replied. “Thank you, Panther and Jaguar, Sirs. I accept the responsibility and I appreciate your candor.”

“And one more thing, Papa Bear. We’ve already lost too many very young men in this conflict. I cannot and will not accept losing one who is still legally a child.” He paused. “Tell Rupert we’re proud of him,” Woodhouse said with a hitch in his voice. “His record speaks for itself and we await the day we can restore him to an active role. Make sure he understands that we respect what he has done. “

Hogan looked at Newkirk, who was now blushing. “He knows, Panther. Papa Bear out.”  
  



	25. Useless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter uses a period-typical term for a developmental disorder. See end note for explanation.

“…and that’s how it’s going to be,” Hogan was telling his team as they gathered for breakfast at the barracks table. “Peter will still be with us. It’ll just be a few months before he can go outside the wire on missions, but we’ll use him as much as possible inside the camp.”

“So I can still open Klink’s safe when you need me to?” Newkirk said hopefully.

Hogan had hoped he wouldn’t press for details, because he hadn’t figured everything out yet. He gave the most parental response he could think of: “We’ll see, Peter,” he said softly.

“That means no,” Newkirk grumbled as LeBeau tugged him closer with an arm around his waist. “It’s not fair.”

Kinch shook his head. “It won’t be easy, Pete, but it’s better than the alternative.”

Newkirk shrugged his shoulders. He was very grateful not to have to leave, and had told Colonel Hogan so last night. But he had slept fitfully as his new reality sank in, and this morning he was feeling more worried and uncertain. He wasn’t sure where he belonged.

“I suppose so. But what am I supposed to do while you lot are running around saving Western civilization? Sit here and play with my toy soldiers?” He didn’t notice the looks that Garlotti, Broughton, and a few other Barracks 2 residents exchanged. It had probably not dawned on him that they’d felt the same way plenty of times.

“There’s lots of work to do,” Hogan said.

“What, KP?” Newkirk snapped.

“Keep that up and it will be,” LeBeau muttered quietly so only the men at the table could hear him. Hogan and Kinch nodded sympathetically, while Carter looked stunned at the outburst.

Newkirk shifted in his seat. “Sorry, Ssssssir,” he said. “It’s j-j-j-just, I n-n-n-know I’m vvvaluable on mmmmissions and I d-don’t w-want to mmmisss out.”

“I know that, Peter,” Hogan replied. He laid a hand on his arm. “But I’m responsible for keeping you safe. You heard that loud and clear last night.”

Newkirk nodded and bit his lip. “Yes, Sir, I understand. And I’ll d-d-d-do mmmmy best.” He whispered, “I’ll b-be good” and his pursed his lips as if he could hold back the mixture of anger and frustration that was building up inside of him.

They all sat quietly, noticing the extreme uptick in his stutter but not wanting to mention it when he was obviously feeling so fragile.

But leave it to Carter.

“I was just thinking, Newkirk,” he said cheerfully. “Maybe you could use the extra time to work on your stutter. Maybe that’s something you can grow out of. You know, now that you’re, um…”

Newkirk’s jaw was clenched and his head was down, and Carter’s expression had turned to “uh-oh.” He had to look hard to be sure that steam was not coming out of Newkirk’s ears, and he could feel LeBeau, Kinch and Hogan glaring at him.

“Well, you know, now that we know you’re a little younger than we thought, but still very mature of course, because you are obviously are, maybe you could see this as an opportunity. You’re young enough that maybe you can still get over a speech impediment, with enough practice, obviously, and boy, you’re gonna have time to practice!” He meant it, as Carter always did, as encouragement, but his earnest plan for Newkirk’s self-improvement was not landing well.

“Leave off, Carter,” Newkirk said. “My st-st-st-stammer is none of your business.”

“I know that. I was just thinking…”

“Well, stop thinking! It doesn’t suit you,” Newkirk snapped. He got up and walked out the barracks.

Hogan cradled his head in hand for a moment and groaned, “Why, Carter?” Then he got up to follow Newkirk. On his way out the door, he gestured at Carter. “Kinch, LeBeau. Explain this to him. Again. Carter, try to listen this time.” He left shaking his head.

“Carter,” Kinch said slowly. He exhaled, trying to hide any traces of anger, but failing. “Stop _thinking_ about his age. Stop _talking_ about his age. And for God’s sake, Carter, try to understand that if he wanted your advice about his stutter, he’d ask you for it.”

“I didn’t mean anything… I was just trying think of things he could do while he’s off the team…”

“No, you never mean anything,” LeBeau said furiously. “That’s the problem with you, Carter. You don’t think before you talk.”

“He’s not off the team,” Kinch added angrily. “He’s just changing roles for a little while.” He took a deep breath, let it out, and forced himself to speak more evenly, because he knew being mad wasn’t going to help anyone. “Andrew, it’s not our job to fix him or find busy work for him. That’s only going to make him feel worse right now.”

“I’m, I’m really sorry guys. I, um, I, um…” He stopped talking and laughed. “Gee whiz, listen to me. Now I’m stuttering too. It’s like it’s catching or something.”

The next sound he heard was LeBeau’s fists slamming into the table hard. He was livid. He didn’t say a word. He just growled and got up to leave.

Kinch grabbed him by the jacket. “Louis, calm down.”

“I can’t calm down,” LeBeau replied. “I cannot watch _him_ ,” he said, jabbing a finger toward Carter, “hurting and humiliating Pierre.”

Carter looked bewildered by LeBeau’s extreme display of emotion. Nobody in his family ever lost their temper. “Gee, sorry, LeBeau, I wasn’t trying to say anything to hurt Newkirk, because that’s something I would never do!” he said.

“Oh, stop apologizing,” LeBeau roared at him. “I don’t care how sorry you are.” He stormed out into the compound to find Pierre. Perhaps Colonel Hogan needed help with him.

Kinch sat at the table with Carter as he continued to apologize. “I guess I really put my foot in my mouth. I was just thinking out loud.”

“I know,” Kinch said sadly. “You’re not a mean guy, Carter. But you’ve got to ease up on Peter. A lot of bad stuff has happened to him in the last few weeks and he’s hurting. You have to find a way to just … think silently.”

Carter nodded, and felt an arm slip around his shoulders. It was Private Garlotti, coming to join him and Kinch at the table.

“Hey guys. I know this is not really my business, but I heard,” Garlotti said. “Let me help. Maybe just another set of ears would be good.”

Kinch nodded. He’d take any help he could get. “OK, Carter?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure, thanks, Tony,” Carter said.

“You have one brother, right Carter? How much younger than you?”

“Nearly six years younger. Davey was 18 in January. He’s almost a year older than Newkirk,” Carter said, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe Newkirk’s so young.”

“Carter, you’ve _got_ to stop saying that,” Kinch said. “The words ‘I can’t believe’ have got to go.”

Garlotti nodded. “Believe it, man. Stop telling yourself you can’t, and just believe it. But then think about what it means.” He sighed. “Listen, Carter. I’ve got two kid brothers plus three sisters. Remember I told you my baby brother is older than you? Vincenzo… Vincent. He’s the youngest. He’s turning 26 soon.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Carter said. “I guess I seem like a kid to you, too, compared to him.” He could feel his ears turning pink as he said it. It didn’t feel great to think of himself as being younger than everyone else. Carter realized that must feel ten times worse to Newkirk.

“Actually, you don’t. See, my brother’s different from other guys his age. He loves to go with us to baseball games, and he knows all the players. He helps my dad out by sweeping out the pizza parlor and cleaning the counters, and he goes to Mass every day with mom. But he’s not in the Army because he’s different.”

Carter looked puzzled. “What’s different about him?”

“He’s a little slow. He doesn’t learn like you or me. He went to first and second grade, but he couldn’t read or write so they put him in a special class where he learned easier things, like how to count to 10 and how to tie his shoes,” Garlotti said, “which honestly is still pretty hard for him to do. He just does bunny ears instead of a regular knot. But he’s proud that he can do it himself, and I am too.”

“I’m sorry, Tony. That sounds really hard,” Carter said.

“Don’t be sorry! I’m not sorry. Vinny’s a great guy and he’s very happy. My mom says he’s a blessing just the way God made him.”

“Will he get better?” Carter asked.

“No. He might get a little better at some things, like throwing a baseball and crossing the street without help, but otherwise not really. You’ve probably seen kids like him before. His face is a little flatter and his eyes are kind of slanted. Have you ever heard of Mongolism?”

Kinch nodded. “My mom’s cousin’s youngest daughter has that. I think she’s about 14 now. She came about 10 years after Cousin Louisa thought she was done having kids.”

Carter was deep in thought. “So what you’re saying is that even though Vinny’s older than me, it’s kind of like I’m older,” Carter said. “Because…”

“You can count money. You can button your own shirt. You can shave by yourself. You can drive a car. My point is, age is a number. You can be 14 and very grown up and responsible, and you can be 26 and still need a lot of help to do things you and me take for granted.”

“OK,” Carter said, still trying to wrap his mind around what Garlotti was saying.

“You’ve got to look at the person and respect them for who they are, Carter,” Garlotti said. “We don’t treat Vinny like a kid because he isn’t a child. He’s a grownup who needs help with things. Newkirk’s a grownup too, in his way. From the little things he’s said, I think he always had to be. You can’t treat him like a kid when he’s used to being treated like a grownup.”

“Newkirk can do all those things I can do,” Carter acknowledged. “Well, except shave. Neither of us has much of a beard. And I guess he can do a lot of things I can’t, like incredible card tricks and making things disappear right before your eyes.”

“Or throwing a knife. Or jumping from roof to roof. He’s better at that than anyone here,” Kinch said.

“Or picking a lock so everyone can slip past the guards or escape the Gestapo,” Garlotti said.

“He’s really brave and tough,” Carter said. “Oh man, I keep talking to him like he’s just a little kid even though I know he’s done things that are hard and dangerous. Why do I keep doing that?”

“I know it’s hard to really get it through your head, because you keep comparing him to your brother Davey. But it’s like LeBeau and I told you. He’s definitely not Davey. He’s had much more experience in life than a high school kid from North Dakota,” Kinch said.

Kinch was right. Carter was having so much trouble understanding the life Newkirk had lived, because it was so different from anything he knew. It would be so much easier to understand if Newkirk _was_ a little kid instead of a 17-year-old who had lived a hard life. Carter felt himself starting to shake with emotion, and his eyes were prickling. He pressed his face into his hands, trying to stop the overwhelming shame he was feeling about how he had judged his friend.

“I would never, ever hurt Newkirk deliberately, guys. I didn’t realize I was making him feel so small. I’ll fix it, I promise,” he said softly. “I’m really sorry.”

**XXX**

Meanwhile, in the prison yard, Newkirk was sitting on a bench, arms crossed, his back pressed into the wall of Barracks 15, halfway across the camp. Hogan was sitting by his side, talking softly, when LeBeau skittered up to them.

“Pierre, are you alright?” LeBeau asked. Newkirk didn’t reply, but Hogan gestured for LeBeau to sit down, and he took a seat on the other side of Newkirk.

“What mmmmakes Carter think he’s the bleeding st-stammering expert?” Newkirk snapped at Hogan as LeBeau sat down.

“He’s not,” Hogan said gently. “The only expert on how you stammer is you. The way you talk is just fine with me.” He nodded slightly at LeBeau.

“ _Moi aussi_ , Pierre. You don’t need to change anything. We speak together perfectly well, right?”

“Yes,” Newkirk said firmly. “Wwwe understand each other, Louis. It’s easy to talk to you. B-both of you,” he added with a small nod at Colonel Hogan. He was quiet for a long moment, and then continued.

“It’s not like I haven’t tr-tried,” Newkirk said earnestly. “He sssseems to think I haven’t even tr-tried. But I work to improve all time. I’m always tr-tr-tr-tr-tr-tr-trying not to st-st-stammer.” He thumped a fist down on the bench. “And now it’s wwwwworse. I hate this!”

“I know you hate stammering, and I also know you work very, very hard not to, Peter,” Hogan said. “But you’re upset now, and that makes it harder to control.”

Newkirk nodded. Yes, Colonel Hogan understood. And it wasn’t as if Newkirk thought his speech couldn’t improve; he knew it could and he wished it would. But Carter couldn’t possibly understand that it wasn’t just a matter of having enough time to concentrate on doing better. Doing better was simply very, very, very hard work. Like everything was lately, it seemed.

“If I w-w-wanted help, I would ask you, Sir. And you, Louis,” Newkirk said. “Not C-C-Carter.”

“Well, I’m honored,” Hogan said. “If you ever _wanted_ help with it, LeBeau and I would do our best to help you if you could show us how. But it’s not up to us. It’s your decision.”

“Yes, it is,” Newkirk said, letting out a shaky breath. He looked directly at Colonel Hogan. “I pr-promise I am trying to ffffeel better about everything and go along with the new rules, Sir. You fought for me to stay, and I appreciate it. But why does Carter have to remind me about what else is wr-wr-wrong with me. It sssseems like everything’s wrong with mmme now.”

“Hey,” Hogan said firmly. “There is _nothing_ wrong with you. Got it? You’re fine. You don’t need to change anything.”

“Then why do I ffffeel so br-broken and useless?” Newkirk replied. He let LeBeau pull him close and leaned in, listening to his best friend’s heartbeat while Colonel Hogan squeezed his arm sympathetically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As late as the 1970s, Down Syndrome was called "Mongolism" by ordinary people and even by some medical practitioners. Today, this term is considered highly offensive, but in the 1940s it was how a person with this chromosome defect was known.


	26. A Boy's Own Adventure

As April turned into May, Hogan’s team started to find a new equilibrium. The Colonel promised Newkirk he would remain part of the core team, and he was true to his word.

Hogan appreciated Newkirk’s ability to probe skeptically at any weaknesses in his plans. His young Corporal had spent enough time pinching wallets and lifting latches to have a developed a finely tuned sense of how things could go wrong.

Hogan also wanted to keep an eye on him. The last thing he needed was for Newkirk to become bored and restless. He had noticed the look on his face when Carter, LeBeau and Olsen left for missions. He had seen him biting his tongue when Carter couldn’t seem to memorize the code words. And Hogan had realized that when he was out of the camp, Newkirk was at his most anxious. Those were the nights he found him with Kinch, pacing the tunnels or asleep at the communications table beside him.

And Hogan’s heart insisted on keeping Newkirk close. He had begun to see glimpses of vulnerability beneath a tough veneer. In the privacy of his quarters, Hogan had pulled out Newkirk’s letter again and again. “My dad will hurt me and you won’t,” he had written. “Please ask London if I can stay here with you.” And he’d sobbed the words: “I want to stay here with you.”

They were heartbreaking words with a common denominator: You. You. You. Newkirk was looking to him, Colonel Robert E. Hogan, for protection from whatever terrifying things his home life represented.

Hogan wasn’t blind. He knew his men respected him, and he was humbled to know that many of them also looked up to him. He doubted that Peter even realized it, but he could see that Peter looked at him as a father who was nothing like the one fate had given him, and he was awed by the trust that this implied.

Even if he didn’t think he was ready for a paternal role, Hogan knew he had to be. He was Peter’s guardian now, with all the responsibility that entailed.

Kinch had joked with him about it and presented him with a cigar the night London made the decision. “Congratulations, Papa Bear. You’ve got a 130-pound bouncing baby boy.”

Hogan had laughed, but his heart was racing. There were so many ways to screw this up. Newkirk was complicated and very private—so guarded that he had managed to keep his biggest secret completely under wraps for years. He was not an open book.

One morning, Hogan was lost in thought about how to live up to his new role when he wandered out into the barracks room. It was quiet; only LeBeau remained inside, sitting with a cup of coffee after everyone else had had theirs. He immediately got up and poured one for the Colonel.

“Are you alright, mon Colonel?” he asked as Hogan settled down at the table. “You look worried.”

Hogan took a big sip of coffee, set his mug down, and forced out a laugh. “I thought I had a few more years before I was going to have to raise a teenager,” he joked. More than anyone, LeBeau understood in his heart that Peter required special care, and only partly because of his age.

“Didn’t we all,” LeBeau said. “Well, don’t worry. I’ve already take care of one big chore for you.”

Hogan’s eyebrow shot up. What did LeBeau mean?

LeBeau was having fun with Hogan’s reaction, and he continued. "Lucky for you, _Papa_ , I've already had ‘the talk’ with him," he said. ~~~~

Hogan shook his head and laughed. "Well, thank you for relieving me of that burden. I'm not sure I could have looked him in the eye." He stopped and squinted at LeBeau. "What did you say, anyway?"

"I asked if he had questions. He said he knew everything…"

Hogan laughed. "I'll bet he did."

"… but then he had questions anyway, about all sorts of things. He asked quite a few that any boy would wonder about before he got to my favorite one," LeBeau teased.

"Yes?" Hogan was grinning with anticipation.

"Do you have to take off all your clothes?" LeBeau blurted out. He was laughing now. "I told him they usually come off bit by bit and of course they don't all need to be off, but he'd probably learn to prefer it if they were. He seemed very relieved to know he wouldn’t have to strip all at once."

Hogan was laughing with him. "I’m glad you handled that one. He really is young.”

“Yes and no,” LeBeau said, suddenly turning serious again. “That’s the puzzle. In some ways, he is as mature as any man here. In other ways, he has had his childhood stolen and he needs it back.”

Hogan nodded, taking it all in. “You understood that before I did. It’s like you said—he lost his childhood, and that’s why you take such good care of him. But LeBeau, what do you think he needs from me? How can I be the most help to him?”

“He’s got me to mother him; oh, don’t laugh. I know perfectly well that’s what I’m doing,” LeBeau said with a smile. “He needs you to father him,” he added simply. “He needs your steadiness and guidance, your trust and certainly your attention. He glows when you take an interest in him. And he needs your forgiveness.”

Hogan looked confused. “Forgiveness? For what? He hasn’t done anything.”

“He will,” LeBeau said. “He can’t help himself. He will do something foolish and he won’t be able to forgive himself, so you’ll have to do it for him. It’s just how he is.”

Hogan nodded, taking in LeBeau’s comments. Then LeBeau spoke up. “You asked me what he needs, Sir, but you didn’t ask me what he wants.”

Hogan smiled warmly. Leave it to LeBeau to see the difference. “What does he want?”

“He wants to be useful. That’s a big part of who he is, and he wants to be recognized for his contributions,” LeBeau said seriously. “And, _mon Colonel_ , he wants to improve himself. Despite how angry he was at Carter, he is trying very hard to figure out ways to overcome his stammer. Carter was wrong to bring it up the way he did, but he was right that Pierre has the chance now to work on it. He wants and needs encouragement, but he has to be the one to decide.”

**XXX**

It was a pretty day in late May and Hogan had a headache. They’d been trying for two days to knock off a shipment of experimental jet fuel as well as its inventor, who carried the formula in his head. The last effort had been a failure and the series of explosions that missed the target had also prompted a tightening of security around the camp.

On top of everything, Hogan’s boys were acting up. Carter was keeping himself busy by carving a bow and arrow. Newkirk was fascinated and wanted to try it, but the minute Carter said no, he switched tactics and began to tease, badger and pester Carter non-stop. Things went from bad to worse when a letter from home revealed Carter’s Indian name—Little Deer Who Runs Swift and Sure through Forest. And LeBeau, to Hogan’s dismay, had joined in the lunacy when Carter mentioned he was part Sioux Indian.

As Carter carved away, LeBeau and Newkirk were whooping around the barracks re-enacting scenes from Wild West movies, and Newkirk was piling on the bad puns about what he called “Red Indians.” It was fascinating to Hogan how his stammer abandoned him whenever he was up to mischief.

Carter was irritated, but he kept carving while shooting angry glances at Newkirk. He’d clearly had experience in ignoring pesky brothers.

Hogan realized he was witnessing an English boy's fascination with cowboys and Indians, and he couldn't help but feel a little indulgent, despite his headache. He remembered how awed Newkirk was when Captain Jeb Winslow and his ten-gallon hat had passed through camp. Right now, Newkirk desperately wanted to try that bow and arrow.

While Hogan was trying to ignore the noise and chaos, he was thinking that if he’d only sent Newkirk with Carter on the mission last night, they would have blown up the right shipment. But now, watching him maraud around the barracks, he was starting to have his doubts. Suddenly Newkirk seemed less like a seventeen year old and more like a twelve year old.

Then the intelligence came in from London. The shipment was being rerouted by truck past the camp between 9:00 and 9:15 tonight, and they were giving Hogan another chance to destroy it. Suddenly the mature Newkirk was back. He was the one who saw Kinch emerge from the tunnel with a message and shushed Carter so they could listen.

When Kinch broke the news, the objections were immediate. “They’ve got Krauts crawling all over the pace, even at the opening of the tunnel!” Carter said. “How can we do anything?”

“They didn’t say how; they said do,” Hogan replied, sounding exhausted.

“Don’t worry, Sir, you’ll th-think of something,” Newkirk said solemnly. “You always do. And we’ll, we’ll, we’ll help. Right, lads?” He nodded eagerly at Kinch, LeBeau and Carter.

It was a touching display of faith, and also badly misplaced, Hogan thought. He didn’t have an idea of what to do; the camp was closed tight. He went off to his office to have a think when suddenly an arrow whizzed past his ear and buried itself in his door.

“Carter, put that thing away,” Newkirk snapped. “You’re a ruddy mmmenace. Are you all right, Gov?” Hogan waved a hand to reassure him that he was fine. Hogan would have scolded Carter himself if Newkirk hadn’t beaten him to it, and for once he was glad that Newkirk’s temper had flared before his own. It was a colossally stupid move by Carter to fire the arrow indoors, and Hogan’s blood was boiling.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Carter said to Hogan. “I was testing the bowstring and it must have slipped. Jeepers, I’m glad it didn’t fly out the window. It took a lot of time to make this arrow.”

“You’re worried about your arrow when you could have k-k-killed the Gov’nor?” Newkirk exclaimed, punching Carter in the arm.

“Hold it a minute fellas. No fighting,” Hogan said, resting a hand on Newkirk’s shoulder to get him to back off while Carter rubbed his sore arm. “Carter, is that the best you can do with a bow and arrow?”

“No, Sir, I won a lot of trophies for archery back home,” Carter said proudly. “Once you learn, you never forget.”

“Alright, then,” Hogan said. “Fellas, I think we have a plan.”

Hogan put his head together with Kinch, who quickly calculated the distance from Hogan’s window to a position just outside the camp gate. “About sixty yards, Sir,” he said.

“Just think what Carter’s flaming arrow could do to a truck carrying jet fuel,” Hogan said with a grin.

Kinch and Newkirk were tracking Hogan’s thoughts right away, as Carter’s expression turned to shock. “The truck will be coming down the road from the north at about 35 miles an hour, and the wind is from the south. Carter, you’ll need to aim your arrow about 15 yards in front of the moving vehicle. Given the area of canvas on a one and a half ton truck, that will give you a seven to ten foot margin of error,” Kinch said.

“And I'd say he'd need every foot of it,” Newkirk replied.

“We're not going to take any chances. Peter, take Carter down in the tunnel and practice till show time.”

Newkirk was clearly pleased to be assigned the role of coach. He grabbed Carter by the elbow and led him away.

“We didn’t need Newkirk at the Little Big Horn, Sir,” Carter protested as Newkirk hauled him down to the tunnel.

“No, but I’ll bet Custer could have used him,” Hogan replied. “Go. Do what he says.”

XXX

At three minutes to nine, Carter and Newkirk were back upstairs.

“How Little Deer doing with the bow and arrow?” Hogan asked.

“J-j-just don’t lend him your bicycle, Sir,” Newkirk replied cryptically.

Then the shouts and whistles began in the camp compound. “ _Appell! Appell_!” Schultz was shouting.

“Dammit, rollcall’s half an hour early! Alright, everybody outside except Carter—and Peter, you come with us too,” Hogan ordered as he waved them toward his office.

“Schultz will know you’re missing,” Kinch said.

“Create a confusion. We’ll be out in a minute,” Hogan said confidently.

In his office, Hogan threw open the shutters and saw the truck’s headlights approaching in the distance. It was his lucky night.

“Alright Carter, any second,” he said. “Get it ready.”

Newkirk lit the arrow and advised, “Remember, lead the lorry by about ffffifteen yards.” They stood by and waited for the opportunity to strike; out in the compound, LeBeau and Kinch focused on getting Schultz all wound up.

As the truck finally drew nearer, Hogan ordered, “Alright, Carter, let it fly.”

Carter released the arrow—straight into the window frame.

“No wonder you lost the West,” Newkirk sniped as he extracted the arrow, replaced it in the bow, and released it in a perfect arc. It hit the canvas of the truck and the vehicle caught fire.

“Beautiful, Newkirk. You’ve got Indian blood in you too,” Hogan said with admiration and relief.

Newkirk smiled to hear his name used that way. “Well, actually, Sir, descended from Robin Hood. If you like, for an encore, I’ll go out and rob some rich people.”

“Nice try, Peter, but you know the rules. You’re staying in camp,” Hogan said. “Come on, we don’t want to be late for roll call.”

Newkirk followed Hogan outside, but he looked crestfallen. Just like that, he was back to being Peter again. Why did he even try?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions a character, Jeb Winslow from "Happiness is a Warm Sergeant" in passing. It also retells some scenes from "Drums Along the Dusseldorf." For purposes of this story, I've assumed Newkirk had to stay behind in camp for the first attempts to destroy the jet fuel.


	27. Making Peace, Waging War

The next morning, Newkirk had wandered off after rollcall to loiter on a bench outside Barracks 4. He had a good sulk going on. He’d saved the mission last night, and he knew it. Colonel Hogan was impressed enough to sing his praises and call him by his proper name, but in the next breath, he was back to talking to him like he was a little boy. Newkirk was starting to hate the name Peter.

He was burning through his third cigarette when Carter strolled up. “Oh, hey, Newkirk, there you are! Are you sitting here?”

“No, my imaginary friend Joseph Goebbels is sitting here. Blimey, Carter, what the hell do you think? I’m obviously sitting here, unless bending your knees and putting your arse down is a new way of running.”

“Oh,” Carter said, taking a seat beside his friend. “Well, what have you been up to?” he said.

“Who me? Oh, the police will fill you in,” Newkirk replied with a roll of his eyes.

“Huh? I don’t see any police around here, Newkirk,” Carter said.

“It was a j-j-j-j-joke,” Newkirk said with a sigh. “I’m j-j-just sitting here smoking.”

“I’ll get a bucket of water, then,” Carter said. “We wouldn’t want you bursting into flames.”

Newkirk couldn’t suppress a snicker. “Alright, touché, Carter. You’ve been working on snappy answers, have you?”

“I have to, with you around. And I’m just trying to cheer you up,” Carter said with a shrug. “Although after last night, you shouldn’t need much cheering up. That was pretty amazing work.”

“Fffffat lot of good it did mmme,” Newkirk replied. “Did you hear C-C-Colonel Hogan call me by my surname? Then, a minute later, I’m little P-P-P-P-Peter again. I’m bloody sick of it.”

“That would bother me, too,” Carter said. “It’s hard being treated like a little kid.”

“Tell me about it,” Newkirk grumped.

“I can. Because it’s how everyone treated me before they realized you were even younger. Even you, and you knew better,” Carter said.

“I never did!” Newkirk replied.

“Newkirk, seriously? Have you heard the way you talk to me? Of course you did. You still do. You treat me like I don’t know anything.”

Newkirk sat in silence for a while. “I don’t think that at all, Carter. I j-j-j-just never fffffelt that I was really younger than you,” Newkirk said.

“Yeah, well, now you know what it’s like,” Carter said. He realized that sounded harsh, and maybe he meant it that way, because Newkirk wasn’t great at having perspective. But Carter was nice through and through, so he added, “I’m sorry you’re finding out, and for what it’s worth I always felt you were older too, because, you know, you have more experience.”

“Of what?” Newkirk asked, suddenly puzzled.

“Women, for starters,” Carter said. “Don’t you?”

“No,” Newkirk said sharply. “You said it yourself, remember? You’re not a virgin.”

“And you are?” Carter said incredulously. Then he corrected himself. “Oh, yeah, you probably are. I mean, you’ve been here since you were fifteen. It’d be kind of surprising if you weren’t. But don’t kid yourself.”

“What do you mean, don’t kid yourself?” Newkirk watched as Carter shrugged his shoulders expressively. “Andrew, you wouldn’t lie about a thing like that,” Newkirk scoffed. Then he looked at Carter’s face. “Would you?” Carter didn’t answer. “Oh, I see. You would. So… both of us?”

“Yep,” Carter replied.

“You’re not lying now? J-j-just to make me feel better?”

“Nope,” Carter said. 

“Do you suppose there are others in this camp?”

“Probably,” Carter said. “There are a lot of young guys here. They can’t all have wild sex lives.”

“Shhh!” Newkirk said. “I can’t believe you used that word!”

“Jeepers, you really are young, you know that?” Carter said. “There’s nothing wrong with the word. Sex, sex, sex.”

Newkirk punched him. “Stop it! You’re embarrassing me!”

“Fine,” Carter said. He went quiet for a long moment. “Are we friends again?”

“What do you mean, again? We’ve always been friends,” Newkirk said. “And by the wwwway, if you ever need to know all the details about sss, sss – w-what you said – you really need to t-t-t-talk to LeBeau.” He leaned closer. “He knows _everything_. Even more than Colonel Hogan does.” He leaned back, crossed his arms, and nodded knowingly.

“Hey, Newkirk?” Carter asked.

“Yeah?”

“Where’d you learn to shoot a bow and arrow, anyway?” Carter asked.

Newkirk shrugged. “Cub Scouts.”

“You’re a Boy Scout too?” Carter looked wildly excited.

“No. I never made it to that level. I was sent away, you see, to a school where they didn’t have Scouts. Please don’t let that get out too, Carter. It’s not good for my image to have been a Cub Scout on top of everything else.”

“You’re secret’s safe with me, Newkirk.”

**XXX**

Hogan was taking in the sunshine outside Barracks 2 as he spotted his two youngest team members strolling back. They were together—that looked like a good sign. He’d seen Newkirk looking dejected, and he understood why. He’d seen Carter looking like a kicked puppy, and he got that too. He was going to have to talk to both of them. The fact that they appeared to be back on speaking terms would make it much easier to clear the air.

“Fellas—a moment, please? Meet me in my office. I’ll be right there,” Hogan said. He waved them in and stayed outside a bit longer, taking a deep breath of refreshing air to prepare for another conversation.

Inside his office, the duo was seated side by side on the bottom bunk, and the competition for who looked more anxious was intense. Usually it was Newkirk, since Carter was generally cheerful no matter what was happening, but right now it looked like Carter might have the lead. He was feeling bad about the botched mission, even though it had ultimately succeeded.

Hogan sat down opposite them, and before he could say a word, they were talking at once.

“I’m real sorry I missed with the arrow, Sir. You were counting on me, and boy, I blew it. And that made two times!” Carter was all big blue eyes and contrition.

“I know I shouldn’t have j-j-j-jumped in without being asked, Sir, but I didn’t want us to miss our chance. I won’t do it again.” Newkirk’s head was hanging down. Shame was his default mode these days.

“Guys, guys, listen. Quiet,” Hogan said. As Newkirk and Carter quieted down, he laid a hand on each one’s knee. “You did great last night, and I mean both of you. Carter, if you hadn’t carved that bow and arrow, we wouldn’t have had a shot—literally—at that truck. And Peter, if you hadn’t thought fast and fired that arrow, we would have missed the opening.”

They weren’t expecting that. Both of Hogan’s boys let out their breath and looked immensely relieved.

“Mistakes happen, guys. That’s normal. But what I saw last night is that when the two of you work together, you can get things done. And I need you both to do better than you’ve been doing lately,” Hogan said.

“But I thought you said we both done good,” Newkirk said, looking puzzled.

“Yes, you did very well. But that needs to be steady. Peter, I know you’re still ticked off at Carter for spilling the news about your age."

Newkirk shrugged and said softly, “Yes, Sir.”

“And Carter, I know Peter’s anger and sarcasm can be pretty hard for you to take.”

“Well, yeah. We just don’t talk to each other that way in my family,” Carter said. “And my mom would have washed my mouth out with soap if I said some of the words he uses. But,” he added, “I’m in the army now. I know how guys are. I just hate that he’s so mad at me all the time.”

“I’m not angry, exactly, Andrew. I’m j-j-j-just j-j-j-j…” He huffed out a huge breath. “Jealous” was not going to come out of his mouth, even though it was accurate. He tried again. “I’m annoyed that I’m younger than you. I can’t believe it.”

“Well, believe it. Stop telling yourself you can’t, and just believe it,” Carter said firmly. “But then think about what it means.”

“Huh?” Newkirk was floored by Carter’s sudden philosophical turn, and so was Hogan.

“It’s something some Kinch and Garlotti have been saying to me. Get over it. Age is just a number. You’re younger than people in some ways, and you’re older than them in other ways. I’m probably young in a lot of ways, like not knowing when to shut up, but I’m pretty mature in the way I control my emotions. And you’re, uh, not. But you’re older in lots of other ways, like knowing how to sneak around and not get noticed and stuff.”

“Oh, very nice, that is,” Newkirk replied, but a smile was playing around the edge of his lips. Yes, he had a Ph.D. in stealth even if his emotional control was still in primary school.

“And you’re calm under pressure. You think things through better than I do, even though I’m better at building and designing devices to get things done,” Carter said.

“You’re more positive. I always see the bad things that might happen,” Newkirk said.

“I think there’s a reason for that,” Carter said. “You’ve had more bad things happen to you. My life’s been pretty hunky-dory.”

Hogan listened with his arms crossed and a smile lighting his eyes. They could work it out. They just needed a little push. Hogan had no illusions that Newkirk would stop being grumpy or that Carter would stop putting his foot in his mouth. But they could do better, and getting them to see and accept that they both had strengths and weaknesses was key.

Hogan was still looking at them, lost in thought, when Carter and Newkirk finally ran out of steam. They sat looking expectantly at him before he realized they were waiting for him to speak.

“What is it, Sir?” Newkirk finally ask. “Is there something else?”

Hogan reached out and placed a hand on Newkirk’s cheek and smiled, and then did the same to Carter. “Nope. I think you two have worked things out nicely. And I’m very proud to have both of you on my team.”

**XXX**

Missions came and went. Carter and LeBeau handled a connection at the Hauserhof. Kinch went out with Hogan and Carter to mine tracks and derail a munitions transport. LeBeau had a solo mission to Dusseldorf that nearly had Newkirk unstrung as he paced around waiting for him to return, and then for the next 24 hours, followed him everywhere.

And Hogan nearly got caught in a double-cross. Willow, a female agent connected to the Berlin underground, passed troop movement plans to Hogan which he quickly determined to be of doubtful provenance. Some details didn’t hang together; the infantry unit that was supposed to be in the vanguard of the advance was in northern Italy, London informed Hogan. Something was wrong, and the agent just about had Hogan convinced that she’d been set up.

The next night, Hogan and Willow returned to her hotel room after a strategy session to figure out how the bad information had been passed along. Hours passed, and Hogan still hadn’t returned. But as Willow got out of bed and went into the bathroom, Hogan took a stroll around the room and saw evidence –a packed bag containing a notebook, a change of clothes and contact information for an SS officer—that convinced him that she was the mastermind. He placed a call to Underground agent Cardinal and Bluebird to intervened and with their help was able to move her to a safe house for transport to London, but not until considerably anxiety had been expended on his behalf.

When he got back to the camp in the wee hours of the morning, he found LeBeau, Kinch and Newkirk all waiting for him. LeBeau was pacing. Kinch was drumming his fingers on the table. Newkirk was seated beside Kinch, coiled like a snake and rocking anxiously. They all looked exhausted.

“Good to have you back, Sir,” Kinch said at LeBeau sprang into caregiving mode, pouring Hogan a cup of coffee and taking his coat while he settled onto a stool to explain what had gone wrong.

“Good to be back. I don’t want another night like that one. I don’t care how pretty she is,” Hogan said with usual raffish manner. “That was too close. She had good information about us, and she was ready to use it. We’re going to have to shut down her whole cell.”

“Did she go, Sir?” Newkirk asked.

“Go where?” Hogan replied.

“Go for you. Did she put out? Was she forthcoming with her ffffavors?”

“Pierre, stop,” LeBeau said. He could hear the underlying anger in Newkirk’s tone. Newkirk had surmised that Hogan had come perilously close to capture or worse because he’d gotten amorous again in the company of an attractive female, and LeBeau knew he was probably right. He was disappointed, but Newkirk was outraged.

“That’s enough, Peter,” Hogan said sternly. “You are way the hell out of line.” He knew exactly what Newkirk was driving at and he was irritated—because Newkirk was right.

“You have lipstick on your collar, Sir. You took too mmmmuch risk,” Newkirk snapped. “You p-p-put yourself in danger and you didn’t have to. You almost didn’t mmmmake it back.”

“And I’m back now,” Hogan said evenly. “Now get up to bed. We’ll talk about your behavior tomorrow.”

“Sir, yes, Sir,” Newkirk said sharply. He pushed himself away from the table angrily and headed up the ladder.

Hogan rubbed his temples and took a seat at the table next to Kinch. He started dictating his report.

“You have lipstick on your neck and chin, too, Sir,” Kinch observed.

“Fine,” Hogan snapped. “He’s right. I was so focused on screwing that agent that I nearly screwed up the mission. Are you satisfied? I thought I had everything under control, but it turns out I’m human and I made a mistake. Now that’s enough. I have a report to file for London.”

LeBeau had nearly followed Newkirk up the ladder, but he hung back. “He was afraid for you, Sir. He was worried you were in danger and he thought you might not make it back.”

“It’s war, LeBeau,” Hogan said wearily. “Sometimes people don’t make it back. He’s too attached to me.”


	28. Responsibility

The next morning, Hogan delivered a tongue lashing for insubordination and Newkirk found himself on KP for a week. But Hogan was chastened, too, because he knew his mistake had been costly. The burden of his new role of guardian was weighing heavily on his mind. After a full day of watching Newkirk looking sullen and avoiding him at every turn, he knew he was going to have to level with the boy.

Hogan did so when the new morning arrived. The other men were lining up for their weekly trip to the showers when Hogan pulled Newkirk out of the queue. “You can go with the last group,” he said. “We need to talk.”

Newkirk sat at the table in Hogan’s office expecting the worst. He’d mouthed off to the one man who could send him back home. Maybe home wasn’t so bad, he thought as he fretted. He didn’t have to go to Scotland. He could run as soon as he hit English soil and make a living somehow. If he picked some pockets and did some black market jobs fast, he could make enough money to keep Nora in insulin for a while even if he did get caught. And if he ended up in Borstal, that wouldn’t be horrible either, except for the canings. The Glasshouse, though… he didn’t like the thought of that one bit. Could he be dishonorably discharged if he was underage to begin with?

He was fretting intensely when Hogan spoke up.

“I have something to explain to you, Peter,” he said. “And this isn’t a discussion between an officer and an enlisted man. This is… well, father to son. Do you understand?”

Oh. This might be worse than he imagined, Newkirk thought. His father-son talks had always been painful. He winced as he thought of hot red cinders and sizzling pink skin.

“Listen,” Hogan said softly. “I make mistakes too. I thought I had all the details sewn up with Agent Willow, and I did—right up until the moment I fell for her. This tendency to give in to temptation—it’s something I have to work on, Peter.”

Newkirk just stared for a moment, trying to make sense of the fact that Hogan had just admitted a shortcoming. This was nothing like a father-son talk. Was it a trick? He didn’t know how to respond, but he knew he needed to fill in the silence, so he finally spoke. “I know it’s difficult…”

“I’m not sure you do know, Peter. When you’re a little older…”

Those words were a trigger. _When you’re older, you’ll understand_. Oh, please. Peter Newkirk understood plenty right now. More than he wanted to know, actually.

“I don’t have to be older to understand that. You were my age once, Sir. I know what the sight of a woman does to a lad like me, and waiting for that … fffffeeling to go away is not exactly easy,” Newkirk replied. “For a mmmman l-like you, with more… well, experience. I expect that once you’ve had it, you…” The words trailed off. He really had no idea what he was saying except that seeing girls filled him with urgency, and he didn’t expect that to change. He’d have to talk more to LeBeau; he seemed to know more about how to control oneself in the face of opportunity.

Hogan smiled softly. “Yes, I do remember what it was like to be your age. My point, Peter, is that I let you down. All of you, but particularly you. I forgot for a minute that I had responsibilities that are even bigger than my command.”

“You don’t owe me nothing, Sir, and certainly not an apology. Like you said, I was out of line.” Backing down while looking tough was second nature to Peter Newkirk.

“You were scared,” Hogan said. “When I didn’t come back, you were scared.”

Newkirk shrugged, his head down. Why did Hogan have to say things like that? His fist had made its way under his nose again and he was stroking the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Finally he looked up at Colonel Hogan and realized that, once again, he’d better say something. And seeing how earnestly Hogan was looking at him, he went with a dash of sincerity. “A bit, yes,” he said.

That was as much as he could admit out loud, but the fact was that Newkirk had been terrified. Colonel Hogan was out on his own that night. He was supposed to be back by midnight. It had gone past three AM and there was still no sight of him. Kinch and LeBeau kept telling him not to worry, but he could hear the doubt in their voices. He was annoyed that somehow Carter was managing to sleep through it, completely confident that things would be fine. Newkirk never felt that confidence. Not ever, and especially when the Gov was missing at three in the morning. And if he didn’t come back, who would take care of… well, the whole bloody operation?

“If you’re ever that scared again, you can tell me or Kinch or LeBeau,” Hogan said gently. “Saying the words will help.”

Newkirk frowned at that. Words, in his experience, were nothing but a minefield.

Hogan continued. “But what you can’t do is what you did. You can’t question my decisions and undermine my authority in front of others. You understand what the chain of command is, and you know I have to make hard decisions and take the biggest risks.”

“Yes, Sir,” Newkirk said. He was feeling overwhelmed now, unable to find any words to express the stew of emotion that was bubbling inside of him. He wanted to escape. “Can I go to the showers now?”

Hogan consulted his watch. “Not yet. They’ll be going for at least 15 minutes longer. I need you to understand this, Peter. If you ever have anything of a personal nature to address with me again, do it privately. I will listen, and I’ll even discuss it with you, but not if you’re attacking me. Do you understand that?”

Newkirk shook his head, less sure than he had ever been of exactly where he stood. He’d just been scolded by someone who hadn’t even yelled at or hit him. What did that mean?

Hogan saw his confusion, stood, and opened his arms.

“Come here,” he said. He wrapped his arms around his boy and held him tight. Protecting another person was harder than Hogan had ever realized. It wasn’t about just keeping Peter physically safe. It was about calming his fears. It was, as LeBeau had said, demonstrating other qualities. Steadiness. Guidance. Trust. Attention. Forgiveness. And, Hogan realized, all those requirements worked both ways. He’d been away from home for years, yet at this moment Hogan wished harder than he ever had that he could talk to his own father for advice.

Newkirk melted into the hold and held his tears in with all his might. He gripped Colonel Hogan as if he was a rock in a storm. Maybe things would be alright after all.

“If you didn’t come back, I’d have to come and find you,” Newkirk said as he listened to Hogan’s heartbeat and breathed him in.

“You don’t have to do that, because I’ll always come back,” Hogan said. He had no idea how he was going to stand by that promise, but somehow he was going to have to. He petted Newkirk’s hair, then released him from the grip. “Go on, now, take your shower. And make sure you use soap.”

As he watched Newkirk pick up his towel, smile, and go, Hogan sat back as memories flooded his mind. Sometimes, he recalled, words weren’t what a boy needed. He needed his father’s embrace.

And he heard a voice speaking to him. “That’s the way, Robert. You’re going to be a fine father.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he whispered.


	29. The Third Degree

Peter Newkirk learned early in life that the best way to protect oneself is to always be on guard, keep the enemy in view, and never, ever let them get behind your back. He followed these guidelines reflexively, and on the rare occasions when he let his guard down, it was only in the presence of LeBeau, Kinch or Colonel Hogan.

But today he was the last one in the shower, and he could relax just a bit. Or he thought he could, until Garlotti came barreling into the stall.

“I barely made it,” Garlotti panted as he pushed his way under the trickle of water that passed for a spray. “I was in the motor pool working on Klink’s staff car. Sorry, Pete. Just let me get some of this water on me before they shut it off.”

Newkirk stepped to one side to give Garlotti his best shot at cleanliness. He’d already enjoyed a nice long rinse, so he focused on gathering up his soap and sponge when Garlotti spoke up.

“What the hell are those marks?” Garlotti asked.

“What marks?” Newkirk replied.

“On your backside. Don’t tell me you don’t know about them.”

Think fast, think fast, Newkirk told himself. “Why the hell are you looking at my arse, Tony? I didn’t think you b-bent that way.”

“Shut up. You know I don’t. I mean it, man. What are all those marks? Who did that to you?”

Newkirk swallowed hard. Why did this have to happen? “I d-d-don’t know, pr-probably something to do with that scarlet ffffever I had,” he mumbled.

“Are you sure?” He pulled him over by one shoulder. “Is somebody bothering you, Pete? I know some of the older guys have given you a rough time, but this is way beyond teasing.”

“No!” Newkirk protested, twisting away “Don’t take on so, Tony. It’s nothing to wwwwworry about.”

“Hm. Well, you towel off and we’ll go see Wilson about that,” Garlotti answered.

“Ffforget it! I’m not showing W-Wilson or anyone else my arse!” Newkirk protested.

“If it’s nothing to worry about, then why are you worrying?” Garlotti asked. He was drying off and pulling his clothes on. “I mean it, Pete, you’re coming with me,” he said firmly, sound every inch an older brother.

XXX

Wilson took one look and sent Garlotti to get Colonel Hogan.

“Pull ‘em up,” he told Newkirk, who complied instantly.

“Why d-do you have to tell him?” Newkirk complained.

“He’s your guardian on top of being your CO,” Wilson said. “He needs to know.”

Hogan arrived in the infirmary with Garlotti, and saw Newkirk sitting on the examination table, his hair wet and his clothes damp from the shower, and a scowl plastered to his face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Peter, are you OK?”

“He’s got burns, Sir,” Wilson began.

“Burns? How did you do that?” Hogan rushed to Newkirk’s side and started examining his hands, arms and face. “Where?”

“They’re on his posterior, Sir. Old burns. Dozens of them,” Wilson said.

“What do you mean?” Hogan asked. He looked at Newkirk, but there was no connection. He was sitting perfectly still, except that his fist was back under his nose and the thumb knuckle was stroking the corner of his mouth. Hogan took the hand and held it firmly. “Peter?” he asked. Newkirk’s only response was try to pull away, though Hogan did not let him go.

Wilson sighed. “I’m not going to force him to show them to you, Sir, but they’re cigarette burns. They leave a very distinctive mark. Someone did this to him a while ago, and the fact the burns left scars probably means they were second or third degree. Garlotti noticed them in the shower and thought they might be something that happened recently.”

“They look bad to me, Sir,” Garlotti said.

“You shouldn’t be looking at me bum,” Newkirk snapped.

Wilson ignored him. “They might be more noticeable now because his skin peeled after he had that bout with scarlet fever.” He turned to Newkirk. “You need to tell us who did this to you, Corporal.”

“What difference does it make?” Newkirk replied.

“It matters to me, Peter,” Hogan said softly. “I want to know how it happened. Was it in the Dulag?”

No reply, although Newkirk was silently evaluating the potential of that particular explanation.

“I’ve seen many injuries from the Dulag, Sir, but not this type, and anyway, these look old,” Wilson said, blowing that excuse out of the water. “But someone did this on purpose. I’ve seen this before back home, and it’s never an accident.” He turned to Newkirk again. “Did it happen all at once or over time?”

Newkirk just frowned.

Garlotti broke in. “Listen, Peter, you’ve got all of us looking out for you. And nobody’s OK with people hurting you, even if it was a long time ago,” Garlotti said.

“Sometimes you need to be t-taught,” Newkirk mumbled. “When you’re bad, you need to learn lessons.”

“Cigarette burns on your backside are not a lesson, pal,” Garlotti said firmly.

“Define ‘lesson,’” Newkirk said angrily. “If someone teaches it to you and you remember it, it’s a lesson.”

“So you do remember who did this,” Hogan said quietly. “Who?”

No reply.

Hogan had a strong and sickening hunch, but he wasn’t going to force the issue—not when Newkirk was so obviously distressed by the discovery. He looked at Wilson. “Does it need to be treated?”

“No, there’s nothing for it. They’re old scars. But as his guardian, you need to know someone deliberately hurt him, Sir,” Wilson replied.

Hogan turned to Newkirk. “Do they hurt?”

“Nnnno,” he replied. Then after a long pause he added, “Not now.”

“Show me,” Hogan said. “I need to see this.” He took Newkirk’s hand, squeezed it, and quietly added, “please.”

Newkirk sighed, shook his head, and climbed down from the examination table. He turned around and loosened his trousers and lowered them so Hogan could see. He heard a hiss as Hogan breathed in sharply through his teeth.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Hogan murmured. Newkirk quickly pulled them up and then turned around. As he did, Hogan grabbed him by the shoulders.

“You know this wasn’t your fault. You realize that, right? There’s nothing you could do to deserve this,” he said.

Newkirk looked at him, squinting his eyes. He was baffled. “Oh,” he said. “Oh.”

No, that thought had never occurred to him. He was sure he deserved it.


	30. Cowards and Heroes

Newkirk was tight lipped as he and Colonel Hogan walked back to Barracks 2.

“Peter, if there’s anything you want to tell me, you know you can talk to me,” Hogan said. “You shouldn’t have to hold things in. I can help.”

Newkirk sighed. “I appreciate that, Sir, but th-there’s nothing to ssssay about it. What’s p-past is past. They’re just a fffew little mmmarks.”

Stiff upper lip, Hogan thought. Damn the British for so thoroughly indoctrinating an entire population with that mindset. It served them well most of the time, but surely there had to be occasions when it was alright to complain. In Hogan’s view, those times included all moments when an adult was intentionally holding a burning cigarette to your baby-soft skin.

He’d find another opportunity to broach the topic, he decided. In the meantime, he’d keep Peter as close as he could manage while a series of late-night missions was underway. All the outings were aimed at uncovering and interrupting the flow of information from Agent Willow’s contacts. Night after night, these efforts took Hogan and at least one other team member outside camp and into the path of danger. Weeding out moles and double agents was in many respects harder than blowing up a bridge or stealing a set of blueprints, and everyone was on edge.

Ordinarily Hogan tried to keep anyone who wasn’t directly needed for a mission upstairs in the barracks, where they could not only get a good night’s rest, but be available to create a distraction. If the designated late-night look-out man caught wind of any surprise inspections or other issues with the guards or Klink himself, they needed men to snap into action. But when Newkirk jolted awake from a nightmare just as Hogan and LeBeau were heading out at eleven o’clock, it was all Hogan could do to make him stay behind. Hogan gave in to his pleas to wait in the tunnel with Kinch until they were home safely.

By the time they returned three hours later, Newkirk had crashed to sleep next to Kinch at his table. While LeBeau went back to the wardrobe nook to change, Hogan placed a hand on Newkirk’s back. The young man woke with a start, his heart racing and his eyes desperate.

“No, please, no, that, ah, wait, just, no, stop,” he sputtered as he pulled himself up. Hogan had him by the arm and was shushing him as Newkirk’s eyes struggled to focus. Gradually his pulse settled down. “Don’t. No. Oh, oh, you. You’re back, Sir,” Newkirk said in a haze. “Is everything all right? Where’s Louis?” His eyes darted around the dark tunnel.

Hogan looked him right in the eye and laid a hand on his shoulder. “He’s changing. He’ll be right here. Everything’s fine, Peter. The mission went off without a hitch. You can rest now, alright?” He rubbed his hand from Newkirk’s shoulder to his neck. Newkirk nodded, eyes wide, then yawned.

LeBeau rounded a corner and smiled warmly at Newkirk. “ _Mon pote_ , the passes you signed for us did the trick. They looked very official.”

“Go ahead up with LeBeau,” Hogan coaxed his youngest team member. “I’ll be up as soon as I give Kinch my report.”

Newkirk’s head was tipped down, and he was looking up at Hogan. “Could, could, could I sleep in your room tonight, Sir? I w-w-won’t be any trouble,” he asked softly.

Hogan grasped his shoulder and smiled, and he saw LeBeau smiling affectionately and shaking his head behind Newkirk. There was no point in telling Newkirk not to worry; that ship had sailed. “Sure,” he replied. “Go on, now, Louis is going up too. Get settled, and I’ll see you there in a few minutes.” He patted Newkirk on the back and winked at LeBeau once Newkirk was moving, then watched them make their way back up the ladder.

“He worries about you, Sir,” Kinch said, as if he was reading Hogan’s thoughts. “After the close call you had this week, I think it’s a good idea to keep him close.”

“Between that and the little discovery Garlotti made, Peter’s suddenly having nightmares,” Hogan acknowledged. “It’s better if he doesn’t disrupt the whole barracks if he wakes up screaming again.”

He dictated his report, then stretched out his back, his hands on his hips. He waited while Kinch sent the transmission, then helped him shut down the communications hut for the night.

“This has been some week, Kinch,” Hogan said as they climbed up to the bunkbed entrance.

“We have a couple more late nights still to come, but we’re almost done,” Kinch agreed as they reached the barracks room. “Good night, Sir.”

“Good night, Kinch.” He glanced up at Newkirk’s empty bunk and tiptoed past where LeBeau should have been sleeping and into his quarters. Newkirk was on the bottom bunk, flat on his back and dead to the world. One boot was on the floor, and LeBeau was tugging the other one off his foot.

LeBeau turned to Hogan and grinned as he placed the boot on the floor. Hogan joined him to pull off Newkirk’s socks and tuck his feet under a blanket.

“He fell asleep fast,” Hogan said.

“One minute we were talking, and the next minute he was like this,” LeBeau said. “We’re all tired, but he’s losing too much sleep.”

“Nightmares,” Hogan said by way of agreement. He pulled LeBeau over toward the door. “LeBeau, have you noticed the scars that he has?”

LeBeau shifted and looked hesitant. “Oui, mon Colonel, I have seen them.”

“Has he told you…?” Hogan asked.

“He doesn’t need to tell me. You know as well as I do who inflicted them,” LeBeau said. “He will not talk about it.”

“What kind of coward would do that to a kid?” Hogan fumed. “No wonder he hates him.”

LeBeau shook his head. “No, mon Colonel, you are wrong there. Children love their parents no matter what they do, whether they deserve love or not,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t hate him. But he’s doesn’t know what it’s like to have a father he doesn’t need to be afraid of.”

Hogan sighed heavily as he took that thought in. Then he nodded as he spoke. “Well, that makes my job easier. It’s not hard to be a better guardian than that.”

“ _Au contraire_ ,” LeBeau said. “It makes your job much harder. His trust is very fragile. He doesn’t understand how he should have been treated.”

**XXX**

Another late night, and the purge of Agent Willow’s contacts was nearly complete. Hogan returned late one night to find Kinch alone at his station.

“Where’s your shadow?” he asked with a chuckle.

“LeBeau talked him into a few hands of poker, and he hasn’t been seen since.” He consulted his watch. “When he heard your voice on the radio with Agent Bluebird, we were able to convince him you’d be back safely in an hour, and you beat the deadline, Sir.”

Hogan idly picked up a book that was lying on Kinch’s communications table. “ _Treasure Island_? Are you re-living your childhood, Kinch?”

Kinch took the book back and put it down carefully. “Don’t lose our place, Sir. And I guess I am, Sir, but this time it’s much more entertaining. Newkirk is reading it out loud to me.”

“Really?” Hogan said, looking both intrigued and surprised. “Was that your idea?”

“No, it was completely his idea. He started a couple nights ago,” Kinch replied. “He just came in with the book and asked if I would listen to him read.”

“Did you ask him why?” Hogan inquired.

“Nope. I just listened,” Kinch said. “He struggled a little at first, but once he got a rhythm going, he was doing fine. By the time he got to the chapter where they’re opening the sea chest and Jim hears the tap, tap, tapping of the blind man’s stick upon the frozen road, he was so immersed that he didn’t miss a syllable.”

“Really?” Hogan said. He had to admit to himself that he was a little disappointed Newkirk had not come to him.

“Yep. He told me tonight that reading out loud was always really scary for him until he realized it helps him notice when and where he stutters,” Kinch said. “I think he’s using it to take away some of his fear of speaking. He loves this book, and he’s doing voices for all the characters.”

“Huh. I’d love to hear him read it,” Hogan said.

“I’m not sure if he’s feeling ready for an audience, Sir, but as soon as he is, I’m sure you’ll be on the short list,” Kinch said.

“Poor old dad is always the last to know about these things,” Hogan joked. “So it’s really helping?”

“It does seem to help, Colonel,” Kinch said. “Once he’s in character, the stutter is far less of an obstacle for him, just like when he’s speaking German. And, Sir, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard him read, ‘I’ve lived on rum, I tell you. It’s been meat and drink, and man and wife, to me.’”

“That’s a very impressive pirate voice, Kinch. I know Newkirk’s always telling you to let him handle the English accents, but you’re really quite good.”

“Argggh,” Kinch replied. “I be good, Sir, but that lad Newkirk be even better.”

“Everyone’s a comedian around here,” Hogan groaned. “OK, let’s get London filled in on the mission.”

**XXX**

Klink was in rare form at roll call the next morning. Major Hochstetter had called him early with a warning that he’d detected more funny business around Stalag XIII. There had been an unusual amount of road traffic late at night, and on two occasions, drivers had abandoned military staff cars within a mile of the camp. Hochstetter, naturally, assumed they came from Klink’s motor pool; Klink asked for the license plate numbers, and had been able to point out that the numerical sequence identified them as belonging to a nearby signal unit.

A gloating Klink was a revolting, long-winded Klink, Hogan thought as he silently praised LeBeau and Carter for switching out the plates.

The men drifted back into the barracks, complaining about the lecture they’d just endured. Newkirk, engrossed in his reading of _Treasure Island_ , grabbed his book from his bunk and sat at the table, devouring the chapter where Jim, hiding on deck in the apple barrel, overhears Long John Silver’s plans to mutiny after retrieving the treasure and then kill the skippers.

Addison peered over his shoulder, then grabbed the book. “ _Treasure Island_ ,” he scoffed. “Kid stuff.”

“Have you read it?” Kinch asked from over near the stove, where he was pouring his coffee.

Addison shrugged. “I don’t remember. I don’t read baby books.”

”You don’t read at all,” someone scoffed. Whoa, Kinch thought, could that have been Carter?

“Well, this book is pretty intricately written. It has an exciting plot, but it’s not easy to read,” Kinch informed Addison. He came over and plunked a mug of coffee down next to Newkirk and squeezed his shoulder in solidarity.

Meanwhile, a rigorous analysis of Klink’s character was underway.

“That Klink is such a jerk,” Harper said. “Boy, can he talk. Yack, yack, yack.”

“He’s such a creep. All he does is kowtow to the Gestapo,” Olsen said. “Now we’re going have those guys all over us today. What a pain.”

“Loser,” Addison said. “Ass…”

LeBeau elbowed him before he could complete that thought.

Newkirk, his head still down, piped in. “He’s j-j-j-just odious.”

“J-j-j,” Addison imitated.

“Shut up, Addison.” That was Garlotti. “What was that word, Pete?”

“Odious. You know, r-repulsive,” Newkirk said, looking up out of courtesy to Tony. “He’s obsequious, always tr-trying to ingratiate himself with Hochstetter.”

Everyone was looking at Newkirk now, though he was oblivious to the stares. He was too deep in his book.

“Obsequious. Good word, Newkirk,” Olsen said. He backhanded Addison across the gut. “Hey, boarding school boy. Do you know what that means?”

“It means he’s a toady,” Newkirk mumbled. Then he looked up at Olsen. “N-n-n-not that you asked me, Olsen,” he added quickly.

Olsen sat by him. “No, those are really good words, buddy,” he said. “Where’d you pick ‘em up?”

“Well, I’m reading this book, you see,” Newkirk said, tentatively showing Olsen. He gestured to Kinch. “Kinch has been explaining the words I don’t know.” Soon Harper, Carter and Garlotti had joined Olsen and Newkirk at the table, and all four were peering over his shoulder, hanging on every syllable.

“Talk as we pleased, there were only seven out of the twenty-six on whom we knew we could rely,” Newkirk read confidently, “and out of these seven one was a boy, so that the grown men on our side were six to their nineteen.”

“What’s that mean?” Carter asked.

Newkirk pointed to the passage. “See, the nineteen, that’s the pirates who are planning to steal the treasure, mutiny against the skipper, and murder the crew. There’s only seven honest men out of twenty-six on the ship including the cabin boy, of course. That’s Jim Hawkins, who’s telling the story. He’s the hero.”

Hogan, Kinch and LeBeau, watching from the doorway of Hogan’s quarters, all looked just a bit puffed up with pride.


	31. Sweet Summertime

Peter Newkirk was not a morning person. He was slow to wake up and always depended on the boost provided by a cup of coffee and at least three cigarettes to get him into gear. But on this sunny June morning, he bounced out of bed with a smile on his face. He grinned through roll call and he beamed through breakfast. He looked like he was up to something.

Newkirk started whistling as he rinsed off the breakfast dishes, and LeBeau knew there was a reason.

“You’re cheerful this morning,” he observed as he stood elbow-to-elbow at the wash basin with his friend.

“Why w-wouldn’t I be?” Newkirk replied.

LeBeau shrugged as only a Frenchman can, with a long, full-body shrug that started with his chin and worked its way all the way down his arms and ribcage. With a gesture like that, he seemed to be daring Newkirk to go on.

“What’s today, Louis?” Newkirk asked.

LeBeau stopped scrubbing the burned porridge from the bottom of the pot and looked up. “Monday,” he finally said. “Wash day. You should get the Colonel’s laundry and get that taken care of,” he added, poking Newkirk in the ribs with an elbow as he went back to thinking about breakfast croissants.

“It’s Tuesday. I did all th-that yesterday,” Newkirk replied. “I mean, what d-d-d-d-date is it?”

“June something,” LeBeau replied. “Who knows?”

“You mean you have no idea?” Newkirk said with a frown. He looked disappointed as he dried off the pot that LeBeau handed to him.

LeBeau barely held back a snicker as he peered at Newkirk from the corner of his eyes. He looked like a duck when he pursed his lips like that, he thought.

“I’ve lost track of time,” LeBeau said with an airy wave of his hand. “The days all run together.”

“That’s not what you said last week when you started your th-thirty-day c-c-countdown to Bastille Day,” Newkirk griped. “You knew exactly what day it was then.” He was definitely starting to pout; he had hoped for a bit more enthusiasm.

“Hmm. I can’t think of anything. It’s June… what, 20th?”

“You’re warm,” Newkirk said, his optimism rising.

“Nineteeth,” LeBeau said.

“Colder.”

“Twenty-fifth?” LeBeau asked.

“Why would you skip that far ahead?” Newkirk asked, heaving out an annoyed breath. Then he noticed how LeBeau was smirking at him. “You know exactly what day it is,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

While teasing his friend was good sport, LeBeau knew he had to put an end to it as soon as stammering became a consideration. He knew perfectly well that Pierre wasn’t about to say a date beginning with his mortal enemy—the letter “J”—if he could possibly avoid it. He’d have to say it himself.

“It’s June 22,” LeBeau said. “And you are…?”

“S-seventeen and a half today,” Newkirk said eagerly. “I’m getting closer and closer!”

“It’s a milestone,” LeBeau said with a broad smile. He fished around in his coat pocket. “Here,” he said, passing something to Newkirk.

“What?” Newkirk began. Then he looked at what LeBeau had pressed into his hand. “Half a cigarette. Well, thank you v-very much. I won’t say no.”

“Half is just right for you,” LeBeau teased. “You should cut back anyway. All that smoking is going to stunt your growth.”

Newkirk looked him up and down critically. “That explains a lot, Louis,” he said before breaking into a laugh as LeBeau punched him on the arm. “Thanks, mate,” Newkirk added as he lit up the stub. “Any day I get an extra smoke is a good day.”

That was when Carter appeared. He had been huddled in Colonel Hogan’s office discussing a recent problem with getting a detonator to work in the presence of electromagnetic interference. “Hey you guys,” he said to LeBeau and Newkirk. “You know what today is?”

LeBeau looked surprised; Newkirk looked pleased.

Carter barreled ahead. “ _Wikanke Wachipi_!”

“Come again?” Newkirk replied.

“It’s the longest day of the year—the summer Solstice! Time for the sundance!” Carter said with excitement.

Recognition dawned slowly. Carter had said something in his Indian language—Lakota, he called it, Newkirk remembered. “You’re … you’re not going to dance, are you Carter?” he asked nervously. He wasn’t sure he could bear that sight without feeling extreme embarrassment, but he was Carter's friend and he wouldn't want to ignore it either.

“Nah. There’s no point. We don’t have any buffalo skulls,” Carter said. He saw the stunned looks on his friends’ faces. “For the ceremony,” he said, as if that was self-explanatory. He was shaking his head as he wandered toward the door. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and turned around

“Oh, hey,” he said to Newkirk. “Happy half birthday!”

**XXX**

As spring slid into summer, the Americans in camp started reminiscing about home. They’d only begun arriving in Germany the previous September, so it was their first July as prisoners. Summer seemed to mean a lot more to them than it did to Newkirk. He had spent the rare warm London days running barefoot through the streets and had even jumped in the Thames a few times with his mates to splash about and cool off. But an English summer wasn’t long, and it rarely featured the startling temperatures that the Americans seemed to consider absolutely normal. London warmed up to the low 70s in July and August, and then summer was over.

In America, it seemed, summer was hot and endless, running from May to September. The Yanks talked about swimming holes and picnics and cook-outs and lawnmowers and ice-cream cones as if it was all a religion to them. Baseball held a special place in their worship, though why “knocking the cover off” Garlotti’s beautifully stitched ball should be a goal was a mystery to Newkirk. The Yanks one-upped each other about whose mom made the best potato salad, a term that left Newkirk—and LeBeau, for that matter—completely baffled, especially after it was described to them. Who would put mayonnaise on perfectly good potatoes, they both wanted to know. And the Americans thirsted for ice cold beer, as if that made any sense at all. Newkirk liked his beer, but only at room temperature; LeBeau only understood wine.

But most of all, the Yanks talked about fireworks. And everyone was looking expectantly at Carter.

As the resident pyromaniac, Carter was all too happy to oblige, but Hogan had set a firm rule: He couldn’t use anything from his lab. Anything he was going to turn into a dazzling Fourth of July display had to be readily available in the camp.

“I just need an oxidizer, fuel and a coloring agent,” Carter mused. “You sure I can’t use some potassium nitrate? And maybe some sulfur and charcoal? If I had some wires, I could rig something that’d really go ka-boom! Whoosh! PH-HHHEW! BAMMM!”

“Keep it simple and try not to show off too much, Carter,” Hogan pleaded. “The last thing we need is to show that Krauts that we have chemicals and we know how to use them.

“Or that we know how to build a detonator box,” Kinch added.

Carter assembled a list. Aluminum foil. Powdered sugar. Sand. Baking soda. High-proof alcohol. Ping-pong balls. Newkirk was ready to head out eagerly in search of everything, saying he need to keep his skills tuned up, but Hogan nixed that. He appointed Olsen to get his hands on the booze and the sand, and LeBeau to raid the pantry. Only after a bit of pouting threatened to turn into a cloud of misery was Newkirk permitted the small pleasure of swiping the ping-pong balls from the Sergeants’ rec hall.

“What a waste of vodka,” Olsen grumbled as he plunked down on the barracks table a 176 proof concoction bottled in Bulgaria. Looking around, he took a quick swig, but when Newkirk tried to follow suit, he got a rap on the knuckles from LeBeau and a disapproving look from Hogan. 

Carter, meanwhile, sent LeBeau back out to find a certain food preservative in the kitchen, and he dispatched Newkirk to ask Wilson nicely for some sulfur from his small set of pharmaceutical supplies. As he huddled over the table all day on July 3, he kept issuing new orders: Sawdust. Tissue paper. Clay. Cardboard.

By late afternoon, he had produced a pile of glow snakes, a clutch of smoke bombs, and a half-dozen Roman candles. Hogan, meanwhile, had secured Klink’s permission for a “small” celebration of American independence, making a case that succeeded only because he persuaded Klink that he was doing it to offend the British. The idea of pitting Ally against Ally was too delightful for Klink to resist.

July 4 was celebrated with a baseball game—American League vs. National League. Kinch played right field; Olsen was shortstop and Garlotti was on second base. Newkirk and LeBeau watched as Colonel Hogan tried to explain the action to them.

Newkirk had a million questions, which Hogan patiently answered: “Why isn’t the b-bowler moving?” “That was leg before wicket! Why is he still in the match?” “Why aren’t there more overs?” “How could there be nine bloody innings?”

LeBeau had one question: “Will this be over soon?” But like everyone, he enjoyed the sunshine and even came away with a sunburn on his nose and cheeks.

Later, in lieu of their evening meal, the men roasted rusk-filled bratwurst and not-yet-moldy potatoes over cooking barrels while the Americans lamented the lack of hot, buttery corn on the cob.

“I don’t care how hot and buttery it is,” LeBeau whispered to Newkirk as they watched the proceedings. “Why do they want to eat pig food?”

“No clue, mate, b-b-but those bratwursts smell all right. It mmmight p-pass for bangers and mash if I pressed down those potatoes with a fork,” Newkirk said hungrily. He turned to LeBeau and asked cautiously, “You don’t think it’s unpatriotic if I try some, d-do you?”

“To eat that slop? Not unpatriotic; just suicidal,” LeBeau said. He gave Newkirk a push. “Go, enjoy it. A growing boy needs to eat as often as he can.”

Food was devoured, roll call was completed, and as darkness fell, anticipation grew. Klink had granted permission for small fireworks display. He watched, like a giddy little boy, from the steps of the Kommandantur as Carter set them all off in the center of the parade ground.

Foot-long glow snakes drew oohs and aahs as they shone, sparked and sizzled. The guards were given the fun of lobbing a dozen smoke bombs toward the mess hall, which all the men agreed was the building most worthy of annihilation. And the Roman candles, though barely eight inches tall, shot red and blue stars into the air—though nothing traveled too high, keeping the pyrotechnics safely within the confines of the Stalag.

As a final highlight Carter got permission to light one single firework rocket to finish the celebration. Exactly at 10 PM he went to the middle of the parade grounds, set down a sturdy bottle and prepared the final bang of the night. Everyone waited in silent anticipation.

Finally, with a shower of sparks, the rocket flew to the sky, taking the dreams, hopes and wishes of the Allied prisoners with it. Under the flash of light in red, white and blue, the Fourth of July reached a joyful and memorable end.

As they picked up the spent fireworks that were now strewn across the parade ground, Carter’s enthusiasm had faded to a frown. He looked sad that it was over.

“What’s wrong, Carter? D-didn’t you enjoy your Fffffourth of J-J-J-J-J-J... um, American Independence celebration? Your fireworks were wizard, mate.” Newkirk looked deeply concerned for his friend.

Carter managed to smile. “Yeah, it was a lot of fun,” he said. “It’s just, there’s nothing to look forward to now.”

“How could you say that?” Newkirk asked. “Aren’t you the keeper of the calendar? D-d-don’t you remember what’s coming right up?”

Carter’s smile grew wider. “Oh, yeah,” he said cheerfully. “Two days to Colonel Hogan’s birthday!”


	32. A Bit of the Bard

It was dawn, and Colonel Hogan woke and stretched and swore he could hear his joints creak. A late night dash through damp summer woods felt bracing at the time, but as he dropped to the floor, he could feel it in his shins—he’d overworked the muscles and tendons and he was sore. Mental note: A Luftwaffe officer’s jackboots were not designed for running.

He peeled down to his skivvies and hit the ground, as he did every morning. One hundred push-ups. One hundred sit-ups. Exceed the standard for a soldier of his age. Exceed the standard for a soldier of _any_ age. It was just what he did, day after day, quietly and professionally, before his men were up.

Eighty, eighty-one, eight-two. Too much momentum. Slow it down and feel the burn, Hogan told himself as he closed in on his goal. Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five.

“Surprise!!!!!”

Four men crowded in at the door, bearing coffee, toast, and something that looked like – could it possibly be? – Bacon and eggs. Oh, the hell with eighty-six and beyond. Hogan was on his feet, pulling on his pants, and ready to dive into that meal.

“You really outdid yourself, LeBeau,” he said as he tucked into his plate. Carter and Newkirk were crowding him like puppies, and both were licking their chops. LeBeau was swatting them away from the food, and Kinch was supervising. Or something. All were grinning with delight.

“I cooked it, mon Colonel,” LeBeau replied. “But it was Newkirk who sto… um, liberated the eggs and bacon.”

The room fell silent as all eyes flicked over to Newkirk, who was now tugging at the hem of his sweater.

Hogan’s eyebrows shot up and he put down his fork. “ _Stole_ them from where?” No answer. “Peter?” he added sternly.

“The, um, the, um, the, um, S-sergeant’s mmmess, Sir,” Newkirk admitted. “Well played, LeBeau,” he added in a low snarl.

Hogan nodded and looked at Newkirk, in a gesture that plainly said, “keep talking.”

“Wwwwell, I j-j-j-j-j…” At that, Newkirk let out a large huff of air. Trying to say “just” was almost always a mistake. Switch tactics: “I sss-sss-ssssimply had a look in the wwwwindow. And there, there, there…”

Hogan smiled, waved at him to sit, and took his fork back up. He was concerned that Newkirk had taken a risk, but he had clearly thrown the boy for a loop and didn’t want to upset him further. “I’m sorry to put you on the spot, Peter. My breakfast is delicious. Nobody saw you?”

“No-no-no-no-nobody, Sssir. Pr-promise. S-s-s-s-s-s-s.” He was blinking like mad and couldn’t get it out so he took in another breath and threw in a word. “I’m s-s-s-sssorry, Sir.” Newkirk suddenly looked like he’d just run five miles—he was flushed, sweaty and worn out by his ordeal.

“That’s good, that’s good. Was this your idea, Peter?”

“Oh, no, Sir, it was LeBeau! He thought of it! He, um, he, um…” Newkirk ran out of steam as he realized he’d just dunked LeBeau into hot water with him. “B-b-b-but I wouldn’t take no for an answer, Sir,” he asserted. “I w-w-wanted to be the one to get it, and anyway I’m the b-best at sneaking into the k-k-k-kitchen window.” He shut up again. “S-s-s-sorry, Sir.”

“It was everyone’s idea, Sir,” Kinch said. “We just wanted to do something special for your birthday. And I watched out as Pete climbed into the kitchen.” What he didn’t say was that he stumbled on the scene and made Carter leave before he gave the whole scheme away with his staring and obvious efforts to be inconspicuous.

“I appreciate it, fellas. It’s the best breakfast I’ve had in ages. Now I’ve got to shave before roll call…”

“Well, actually, mon Colonel,” LeBeau began. At that words, Newkirk swept the door open and dramatically waved in Garlotti, who was bearing a warm basin of water and a barber cloth. Carter gathered the Colonel’s shaving cream and razor and turned them over. Colonel Hogan settled in for a nice, relaxing shave.

**XXX**

It was their first time celebrating Colonel Hogan’s birthday, and his men couldn’t seem to do enough for him. Kinch presented him with a brand new thriller without a single creased page. It was titled “Rear Window,” and he had somehow acquired it from London. Carter carved him an eagle feather to use as a paperweight. Olsen presented him with a small bottle of brandy, but judging from the wink he gave to Newkirk he might have had some help obtaining it. Even Colonel Klink had something special for him – a cigar, which he delivered at roll call with a few wry words about how the Colonel would have taken it anyway.

Throughout the day, Newkirk hung back. Hogan wondered why. Maybe he’d been a little too rough on him about stealing the bacon and eggs. He’d been very well behaved overall, and Stalag 13 wasn’t the sort of camp where a boyish prank could lead to a severe punishment—most of the time. But the constant risk was that someone like Burkhalter or Hochstetter would roll into camp at the wrong moment. It was a low-grade threat, but he didn’t want Peter to pay a price; he’d made a promise to London, and to himself, to protect him.

After supper, and before the final roll call of the day, while Kinch and Hogan were holed up with Carter going over details for an evening raid on an oil depot, Newkirk poked his head in to see how much longer they’d be. Kinch smiled and winked at him as the Colonel said, “Just about done here,” and Newkirk nodded back.

A few minutes later, they trooped out to the main barracks room and there, standing on a chair, was Newkirk. He held out his arms to command silence. Then he nodded at Kinch.

“Colonel, we’ve got a little something for you,” Kinch said with a smile. “Something Newkirk and I have been working on for a while. We know this is one of your favorite plays, and we thought you’d like this.”

With that, Newkirk looked around the room, bit his lip, and looked down. When he raised his head a moment later, he was a different person.

_Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;  
Or close the wall up with our English dead!  
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man,  
As modest stillness and humility;  
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,  
Then imitate the action of the tiger:  
Stiffen the sinews, conjure up the blood,  
Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage…_

Newkirk didn’t just say the lines; he performed them with his whole being, leaping down from his chair for dramatic effect. The result was dynamic and captivating. He was completely fluent, with crisp consonants and round vowels. His voice rose and fell, commanded and coaxed, whispered and shouted, as the energy coursed through him. 

_… And you, good yeoman,  
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here  
The mettle of your pasture: let us swear  
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;  
For there is none of you so mean and base,  
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.  
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,  
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:  
Follow your spirit; and upon this charge,  
Cry 'God for Harry! England! and Saint George!'_

He ended with a shout and a fist pump, then put his head back down, and once again he was Newkirk. “Hap-hap-happy, happy birthday, Colonel Hogan,” he said. “I, I hope you liked it.”

The room erupted in applause and Colonel Hogan threw his arms around Newkirk and gave him a big squeeze. When he let go, his look of amazement at the performance was replaced by something quite different. It was pride. Undiluted pride at knowing how hard Peter had worked to do this for him.

“Kinch helped me,” Newkirk said. “I couldn’t have done it without him.” Kinch threw an arm around him. Carter was grinning maniacally and elbowing Addison—who looked simply astonished—in the ribs.

LeBeau stood quietly beside Newkirk, arms crossed and deep in thought. Newkirk looked to him, head tipped to one side, waiting for him to say something. Finally LeBeau piped up.

“This is right after the French beat back the English at Harfleur,” he said with a shake of the finger at Newkirk.

“Yes, and r-right before we destroyed them at Agincourt,” Newkirk replied. He gnawed anxiously on his lip. Was it in bad taste to perform a scene from Henry V? Had he struck a nerve? And most important of all, was he going to get a slice of the Colonel’s birthday cake after this?

LeBeau cracked a smile. “It’s a good play, and a rousing speech,” he said. “I prefer the part where the French princess tries to speak the grotesque English language to Henry, and he foolishly tries to make himself understood in French. But you did extremely well, mon pote.”

"That is a good bit," Newkirk said with a grin. "We can learn that one for the Colonel's next birthday. You can be the princess."

Newkirk ducked as LeBeau smacked him with his beret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The verse is from Henry V, Act III, Scene 1. In one episode, Newkirk actually recites Shakespeare so I liked the idea that he might want to learn a monologue.


	33. Growing Pains

“Boy, you should have seen that bridge go up, Newkirk! Ka-BOOM! Nobody’s using that overpass for a couple of months. It was almost as good as the explosion last night. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much hot metal flying through the air.”

Carter was practically breathless, and it wasn’t even 10 o’clock in the morning. The week had brought one exciting sabotage mission after another as Hogan’s team worked to stall Wehrmacht infantry movements toward the coast and toward Vichy France. Summer weather was favorable for the Germans, providing mild conditions and many hours of daylight for men on the march. A few strategically disrupted bridges, overpasses and roads would slow their progress.

As Carter regaled him with his exploits, Newkirk sat on his bunk with his stitching, nodding and trying valiantly to ignore the feelings frothing inside him. He knew he was under orders to lie low until he turned 18. But he couldn’t help feeling that he should be out there interfering with the enemy instead of here in the barracks with his thimble, his thread, and his thumb up his arse. His contribution for the week had been to select what clothes everyone would wear. He was not good at sitting idle while others got things done.

LeBeau, Kinch and Hogan were in the tunnel, reviewing plans for the night ahead, as Carter prattled. Newkirk couldn’t blame his friend for his enthusiasm or his own low mood, so he tried to make conversation.

So he forced out a grin. “I’ve been wondering, Carter. Exactly how m-many Adolf Hitler bridges are there in G-G-G-G-G-G…” he began. “G-G-G-G-G.” Bloody, bloody hell. He’d been off to such a good start with that sentence, and now “Germany” was stopping him cold. He’d practiced this word endlessly and thought he could count on saying it correctly, but obviously he was wrong. He made another try. “How many are there in this godforsaken c-c-c-country, anyway?”

Carter, unbothered by Newkirk’s struggle, was starting to answer when Addison poked his nose in.

“Germany, Newkirk. The country we’re in is called Germany. You keep saying you’ve been here longer than the rest of us. I’m surprised you don’t know the name of the place!” Addison was feeling emboldened because over the past month, he’d been pulled into two missions outside the wire. While he wasn’t exactly on the A-team, he was reveling in his new status as part of Hogan’s B-team.

“Leave off, Addison,” Newkirk snapped back. “I know w-w-what it’s called.”

“G-G-G-G-G-G…” Addison mocked. Behind him, two new guys—Bartoli and Belknap – snickered at Addison’s wit.

“That’s not nice, Addison. You know he stutters over that G-sound,” Carter added.

“Yeah, don’t be such a bully, _Winthrop_ ,” Garlotti put in, adding a mocking spin to Addison’s fancy first name. He turned to Newkirk. “You’re right, it seems like every other bridge in Germany is named for old Scramble-Brains.”

Newkirk nodded, but it was too late. His ears were turning pink. He appreciated the support, but he didn’t like the feeling that he needed to be rescued, and all the fun had gone out of the repartee. He fell quiet while the others chatted, and he almost had his irritation in check until Addison spoke up again.

“Are you supposed to be telling him this stuff, Carter? I thought we were all supposed to be protecting his sensitive little ears until he’s old enough to be a soldier,” Addison said. Bartoli and Belknap chuckled again.

Carter looked confused. “No, it’s OK to tell him, Addison. He’s on the team. He’ll be back out there before…”

Addison snickered and interrupted. “Then I guess we’re the only sabotage team in the entire military with a resident seamstress. What are you working on there, anyway, Newkirk?”

Newkirk had been hard at work on Nazi uniforms and other disguises for weeks, but at this moment, he was taking in Colonel Hogan’s spare trousers, because he’d lost more weight. After that was done he was going to let down the hem on his own trousers, which were suddenly too short. But he didn’t feel like going into that with Addison, so he studiously ignored him.

But Addison could never resist poking a bear. “No answer, huh? Well, you stick to your needlework, little lady. We’ll fight the war.” Now Bartoli and Belknap were laughing openly.

That was it. Newkirk leapt down and before Addison could react, he was on the floor, clutching his groin where Newkirk had put the boot in.

“Jesus, you fight dirty, you little creep,” Addison moaned. But Newkirk didn’t hear him. He was already out the door.

**XXX**

By the time Carter caught up with Newkirk, he was in more trouble. He was in throwing distance of the guard tower, Corporal Fleischer had him in an arm lock, and Sergeant Schultz was walking briskly toward them. 

“Hey! Let him go!” Carter shouted as he caught up with them.

“He was throwing rocks at the guard tower again,” Schultz said, wagging a finger at Carter. “Oh, Newkirk, you give me such trouble! You know this means the cooler for you. Where is Colonel Hogan?”

At that, Newkirk delivered a swift kick to Schultz’s shin. “Fffffine. Lock mmme up!” he snapped.

Schultz yelped. “Why would you kick me, Newkirk? Oh, you are a very bad boy!” He grabbed him by the collar and hauled him away, shouting over his shoulder at Carter. “You go tell Colonel Hogan that Newkirk is in the cooler.”

**XXX**

As it happened, Hogan, Kinch and LeBeau had just climbed back into the barracks in time to watch Carter dash out the door. Hogan looked down at Addison, who was still writhing on the floor, and gave him a hand up.

“What happened to you?” Hogan asked. He looked over at Bartoli and Belknap, who looked stunned. “Did you see it?” he asked them.

“Newkirk kneed me in the balls, that’s what happened,” Addison said as he stood doubled over. “I swear to God, I’m gonna get him for this.”

Hogan shook his head. “You two, help him to bed,” he ordered Bartoli and Belknap. 

LeBeau and Kinch were halfway across the compound and Hogan was on their heels. They skittered into Carter as he returned to Barracks 2, and they could just see Schultz as he dragged Newkirk around a corner. Kinch and Hogan stopped to get the story from Carter; LeBeau just kept running.

“Schultz! Where are you taking Newkirk?” LeBeau shouted as he ran. Suddenly, bullets tore through the dirt in front of his feet. It was Fleischer, shooting a warning shot so close that he could feel it whiz by. LeBeau stopped cold, and twenty feet behind him, Kinch, Carter and Hogan slowed their run to a walk.

“Why are you shooting at that man?” Hogan demanded of Fleischer.

“It is a warning. He must not run and shout at the Sergeant of the Guard,” Fleischer said.

“Are you making these rules up as you go along? There’s no rule against running inside the compound. He’s not escaping,” Hogan insisted angrily.

“Take it up with Sergeant Schultz,” Fleisher sneered. “And tell your Englander if he throws rocks at me again, I will shoot and I will not miss. As you saw, I am a very accurate marksman.” He turned and walked back to his post.

Hogan spoke. “LeBeau, come with me. Kinch, Carter, get back to the barracks. And when I get back I want to know exactly what happened.”

Hogan and LeBeau reached the cooler and loitered outside until they heard Schultz’s steps approaching. As Schultz lumbered toward them, he shook his head, but he looked more disappointed than angry. He stepped outside and stopped in front of Colonel Hogan.

“I need to see him now, Schultz,” Hogan said.

“As soon as I finish the paperwork, you can see him,” Schultz said, sounding weary. He scribbled something on the clipboard he was carrying and handed it off to a private who stood nearby. “Take this to the Kommandant’s secretary,” he ordered. “Schnell!”

Schultz turned to Hogan. “He kicked me, Colonel Hogan. That is not like Newkirk. He’s usually such a good enemy. What is wrong with him? He is very sad lately.” Schultz stopped. “You don’t think he’ll try to escape, do you? Oh, when he was new here he was trying to escape all the time.” He shook a finger at LeBeau. “And you too.”

“I don’t think he’s trying to escape, Schultz,” Hogan said. “I think he’s just … restless.”

“ _Ja. Er hat Wachsstumschmerzen_ ,” Schultz said solemnly. “I think you say growing pains,” he translated for Hogan and LeBeau. “I’ve been noticing it. He’s taller now.”

“He’s been done growing for years, Schultz,” Hogan said dismissively.

Schultz shook his head again. “ _Nein_ , Colonel Hogan. I am a father and I am a sergeant. I know many, many young men. He is at least six or seven centimeters taller than when he came here, and he looks stronger. He says he is 23, and some boys do grow past 20. But I think maybe he is younger than he says.”

“Hm,” Hogan said. “I couldn’t say.”

“Sometimes boys get sad when they are growing so much,” Schultz said. “He’s so far away from his home, and some of the other boys are not very nice to him because, you know, he has a very bad _Stottern_. You talk to him, Colonel Hogan. See if you can get him to calm down and I will let him out tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Schultz. Can LeBeau come with me?”

Schultz sighed, looked both ways, and then gave LeBeau a little push. “Go. Don’t tell the big shot.”

**XXX**

LeBeau and Hogan were hardly in the cell when the protest began.

“I’m not a bleeding seamstress,” Newkirk snapped. “You can start by telling Addison that mmm-mmm-mmmuch.” There, in his accustomed spot on the floor, he dropped his head into his hand, an elbow propped on knee.

“Duly noted,” Hogan said. “Any other messages before I ask you a few questions?”

“Yes. You let Fleischer know that if I wanted to hit him in the head with a rock, I could do it. I wasn’t bleeding aiming at him. I was just letting off steam.”

Hogan sat down beside him. “Next time let off steam by kicking your football, OK? Now what happened?”

Now Newkirk’s head was in both of his hands, palms pressed against his forehead he wrestled with anger. “I don’t even know anymore,” he said. “Addison said something stupid…”

“As usual,” LeBeau said, sliding down next to him.

“… and I took the bait,” Newkirk said.

“Also as usual,” LeBeau said, though not without sympathy.

“And, and, and he had those two new blokes laughing at me because I couldn’t say G-G-G-G-G-G…” He tugged at his hair. “BLOODY DEUTSCHLAND,” he shouted. “Without stammering,” he added in a whisper. He took a deep breath, whiffing the cell's stale scent of mold and urine, but also detecting some grass and rain and cinnamon.

“Addison really gets under your skin,” Hogan said.

“He gets on everyone’s wick! He’s a prat and a tosser! And now that you’ve started taking him out on m-m-missions, he’s insufferable.”

Hogan was at a loss for what to say—there was just too much to unpack. Was he restless? Irritated at Addison? Angry that he was stammering? Embarrassed? Jealous? Or growing, like Schultz said. It might have been all of it, he thought.

Newkirk laid his head on his knees and closed his eyes while LeBeau stroked his back and neck. He didn’t know what was wrong either. He felt like he was storming inside, and a part of him wanted to just cry it out. But he was nearly 18 years old and a soldier to boot. He couldn’t do that. He settled for rubbing the corner of his mouth with his thumb knuckle; that sensation always helped a little.

“I thought I heard shooting,” he finally said.

“You did,” LeBeau said.

Newkirk’s head jolted up. “Who was it? W-w-was anyone hurt?”

“It was Fleischer. He was shooting at me for running,” LeBeau said.

“Louis! You could have been killed!” Newkirk exclaimed.

“ _Chut_ , mon frérot. I am fine. But he did get my attention,” LeBeau said with a laugh.

Newkirk didn’t see the humor. In a flash, he was bashing himself with his fists. Colonel Hogan pulled his hands away from his face.

“You were running after me! I could have got you killed! Then what would I do?” Newkirk was yelling.

“Calm down,” Hogan said. “Everybody’s fine. Come on, settle down.” He held on to Newkirk’s wrists as the fight went out of him.

“I’m tired of being so bloody useless,” Newkirk finally said. “I’m not just a bleeding tailor. I can do more.”

“I know that,” Colonel Hogan said forcefully. “I’m counting the days too. But we have to be patient a few months longer.” He saw Newkirk’s hand travel to the hem of his jacket; he was feeling around for his lucky piece.

“Take it out; there you go,” he said as Newkirk extracted it. Touching and rubbing it was having the desired effect. Newkirk’s features relaxed and looked softer as he turned the captain bars over and over in his hand.

There was something about his expression, Hogan thought as Newkirk settled himself down. It was like he’d seen it long ago.


	34. Payback

In the middle of a Friday afternoon in a perfectly quiet barracks, Newkirk sat at the table puffing on a cigarette and looking over his handiwork. The other men were outside. He was in here, in peace, finishing up a beautifully decorated letter to his sister Nora.

Schultz had released him from the cooler that morning, but his recreational privileges were revoked. Schultz had been vague about how long Newkirk would be confined, and to Newkirk’s annoyance, Colonel Hogan hadn’t pressed the point. He’d be stuck inside until someone in charge, whether German or American, decided otherwise.

Well, there was always the post to think about. Newkirk had emerged from the cooler to find that letters to home were piling up on the barracks table. LeBeau said they would be sent out Monday morning. Hogan handed Newkirk a sheet of paper that folded up into an envelope. Sometimes each man got two, three or even four letter forms per month, but this time there was only enough Red Cross stationery for one letter per man.

Deciding who would get his letter was easy for Newkirk. In a big family, there was always someone’s birthday to think about, and Nora’s 20th was coming up at the end of September. Letters to and from England seemed to be taking one to two months. He could address the letter to Nora but make sure it included greetings for Mum and Mavis and the rest of his sisters and Ned and Georgie. It was mid-July; if the letter was posted Monday, it should arrive in time for Nora’s birthday.

Newkirk was glad everyone was out, feeling relieved to be alone, even after a stint in the cooler. As much as he missed his closest friends, he liked his solitude. Plus, he didn’t need anyone to see him drawing flowers and vines and curlicues and coloring them in with pastel pencils. He was a good artist and he knew it, but that didn’t mean anyone else needed to know it. A soldier was admired if he drew tanks and airplanes and naked women—especially naked women—and Newkirk was capable of all of that. But the minute a chap showed an aptitude for drawing rabbits, roses and butterflies, opinions shifted unfavorably. And Nora wouldn’t appreciate pictures of tanks, airplanes or naked women, even if they did make it through the censors.

Newkirk let out a smoke ring as he gazed down at his work and decided the scene needed puffy clouds and more pink somewhere. He was working so diligently to create something special for his sister that he was completely startled when the door swung open and Addison and Belknap strolled in. He clenched his cigarette in the corner of his mouth as his hands scrambled to cover his artwork, but it was too late.

“Looks like Kindergarten is in session, because Peter’s got his crayons out,” Addison started.

“They’re p-p-pencils,” Newkirk snapped as Addison pushed his hands off his artwork.

“Well isn’t that a pretty picture. Did you draw that for your Mommy?” Addison said sweetly.

“Hey, that’s actually pretty good,” Belknap said. “Let me see.” He grabbed at the birthday note.

“P-p-p-put it down! It’s ffffffor mmmmy sister’s b-b-bir, bir, bir…”

“Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba,” Addison repeated. “All that reading out loud still hasn’t fixed that stutter, has it? You sound as dumb as ever.” He grabbed the drawing back from Belknap and dropped it, fluttering, onto the floor.

Newkirk pushed away from the table furiously, pausing only long enough to deposit his cigarette in the ashtray. As he stood and swung at Addison, he managed to dodge the American’s kneecap, but he sprawled backwards, bumping hard into the table. At that sign of trouble, Belknap was out the door.

Newkirk staggered back on to his feet, scowled at Addison, then tore across the small space between them. He butted him in the chin with his head. Addison grabbed him by the neck, but Newkirk freed himself with a quick upward thrust of his elbows, striking one sharply in the middle of Addison’s chest. Addison caught his breath, grabbed Newkirk by the arm and twisted. Again, Newkirk broke free, and he delivered a punch to Addison’s gut. He was just taking a breath when Addison lunged back at him and planted his knee on its mark. Newkirk was down on the floor.

He could hear the door slamming and his own breath gasping. Pain radiated through his groin and into his abdomen. He was on his hands and knees retching when an acrid smell assaulted his nostrils. It was smoke, he thought, until he looked over his shoulder and saw flames licking at the pile of letters on the table.

Newkirk struggled to his feet, still in agony and unable to straighten up completely, and grabbed the bucket of water that was kept by the stove. He poured it over the letters and watched as the flames died down to a sizzle and then a muddy mess of embers. He sat down heavily on the bench and stared at the damage.

At just that moment, a whistle blew outside and the door swung open again. Recreation period was over. Through the door came Colonel Hogan and Carter, who was chirping merrily about riding his motorcycle back home. They went silent as the smell of burned paper and wood hit their nostrils.

“What happened?” Carter asked.

“A ffffffire, obviously,” Newkirk said wearily.

“I can see that. But how?” Carter persisted. Men started filing into the barracks behind him and everyone was asking questions now. It was overwhelming, and Newkirk could feel his cheeks flushing. He dropped his chin to his chest and tried to concentrate on breathing. His groin ached. LeBeau came to stand beside Newkirk, a protective arm on in his back.

“Peter?” Hogan asked. “Can you explain?”

At that, Newkirk picked his head up and looked around. He could see what had happened but he knew he’d never get an explanation out. When Addison pushed him into the table, the ashtray tipped over and spilled its contents, including a lit cigarette, onto the pile of letters. Apparently it hadn’t taken much for sparks to become a flame. Half the letters were burned to a crisp, half were singed badly, and all were sopping wet. He felt sick to his stomach, and not just because of where Addison’s knee had landed.

His eyes met Colonel Hogan’s. In them, he read disappointment and frustration. He had let the Colonel down again. He shook his head. No, he could not explain. Not now.

“All right then, Peter, I need you in my office, now,” Hogan said firmly to Newkirk. He had seen Addison emerge from the barracks rubbing his jaw, but hadn’t thought anything of it until he came back inside to this scene. Now he had an idea of what had transpired, though he had no idea why. He was 100 percent certain that he wasn’t going to be able to get the story out of Newkirk with an audience, though.

Newkirk stayed seated, acutely conscious of the pain radiating out from where Addison had kneed him. “I c-c-c-c-c…” he started. “C-c-c-c-c.”

“Now, Peter,” Hogan said quietly. “Don’t test my patience.” 

But Newkirk was truly stuck. “C-c-c-c-c-c,” he continued. “I c-c-c-c-c-c.” It was agonizing to watch as his face contorted and he seemed to be fighting for every breath.

Hogan crouched down to rest a hand on his knee. He looked him with deep concern. “OK. OK. Take your time,” he said softly. “Breathe.”

By now, Addison had been herded back into the barracks with the rest of the prisoners as their recreation period ended. Hogan stood and lit into him, his paternal concern for Newkirk momentarily overriding his usual self-control and balance.

“Addison, what the hell happened here?” Hogan demanded.

Addison shrugged, but he looked worried. Hogan was steamed. “We had a fight, Sir, and Newkirk got a little taste of his own medicine.”

Well, that explained why Newkirk was looking decidedly green. Hogan heaved out a sigh at waved at his young charge. “Carter, LeBeau, help him into my office. Kinch, talk to Addison and get his story. And Addison, wipe that blood off your lip before the Krauts see you two were fighting. I want to hear directly from you, too. I’ll speak with you about this next, but right now I’ve got an injured man.” He shook his head in despair as Newkirk hobbled off between LeBeau and Carter.

“Do we need Wilson, Sir?” Kinch asked.

“No, I think he’ll be alright,” Hogan replied.

LeBeau and Carter eased Newkirk onto the bunk, and he curled up on his side, knees drawn up and arms clutching his mid-section.

Hogan took a seat beside the bunk, knowing that no amount of questioning was going to draw the story out of Newkirk until he was able to talk calmly. He decided to start with the facts in evidence.

“All right, Peter, try to relax. The pain will pass. Let me see if I’ve got this right. You were fighting and Addison got you where it hurts with his knee,” Hogan said. 

“Yes, Sir.” Newkirk replied through gritted teeth. He hoped Addison had felt half this much pain.

“And somehow while you were scuffling, the ashtray fell onto the letters and they caught fire.”

“Yes, Sir,” Newkirk said.

“Neither of you saw it at the time?”

“No, Sir,” Newkirk replied.

“All right. And as soon as you can explain yourself, you’re going to tell me what this fight was all about, right?

“Yes, Sir,” Newkirk agreed again. He took a few breaths and grimaced just as Kinch re-entered the room, holding a sheet of paper. It was Newkirk’s letter to Nora. It was damp, but it had been on the floor where Addison had dropped it, so it had survived the fire.

Hogan took the letter, looked it over and sighed, then turned to Kinch for an explanation.

“Addison says he was minding his own business when Newkirk went after him. He pushed him into the table by accident and he assumes that’s how the fire happened. He gave him the knee and left the barracks without noticing any smoke. I found Pete’s letter to his sister on the floor.”

“Of c-c-c-course he says that,” Newkirk said with a thick voice. “I was mmmmaking a b-birthday card for N-Nora and he started in on me, C-colonel. Everything else is true.” He gulped, and Hogan mistook the sound for emotion. Maybe regret.

“Yeah, Belknap says that too, Pete,” Kinch said. “He also said you’re a very good artist and Addison was a jerk.”

Newkirk wasn’t listening. He let out a strangled sound, got up on one elbow, and uttered a single word: “Bucket.” There wasn’t time to get one; in a moment he had thrown up over the side of the bunk and dropped his head back down. He looked sick as a dog as he curled his knees tighter. Carter set to work cleaning up the floor while LeBeau focused on cleaning up his friend. “Sorry, Carter. Sorry, Louis,” Newkirk whispered. “Sorry, Colonel Hogan.”

Once his head was down and LeBeau was fussing over him, it only took a few minutes before Newkirk was sleeping under a layer of blankets. No doubt the cooler had been miserable the night before, and he was exhausted on top of being in pain.

Hogan sighed as he realized he wasn’t going to get anything else out of Newkirk for a while.

“All right, fellas, let’s let him rest,” Hogan said. All four men filed out of the office to let Newkirk nap away the pain. Back in the main barracks room, the rest of the men were mopping up cinders, sifting through what was left of their letters, and grumbling about the lost chance to write their loved ones.

Belknap quickly came clean with Colonel Hogan. With Addison standing right there, he told the Colonel that Addison had provoked Newkirk. Newkirk wasn’t blameless, but he hadn’t started it. Everyone gathered around as Addison finally admitted to Hogan what he’d done.

“I was still mad about what he did to me yesterday, Sir. So I got him back like I said I would,” Addison said. He was faced with a sea of angry faces. “Look, guys, I don’t know why you’re all so mad at me. He’s the one who ruined all your letters.”

Olsen jumped in. “Addison, you’ve got to quit picking on Newkirk. First of all, he’s just a kid…”

“Yeah, I know, Olsen. He was sitting there drawing his little baby pictures like such a pansy, and then he started babbling like a dope,” Addison said. “ _Ba, ba, ba, ba_. He can’t even talk right.”

Olsen was shaking his head. “Addison, he can’t help that he’s got a stutter. He stutters worse if you treat him like a jackass! Believe me, I know!”

“Yeah, you do know,” Addison said, shoving Olsen on the shoulder. “You were always on his ass.”

“Listen, man, his stutter bothered me for a long time, too. I guess I thought he wasn’t that smart or that his mind was messed up, based on the way he talked,” Olsen said with a shrug. “I guess I was just looking for a way to feel more important than other people, and it was easy to make fun of his stutter. But now I can see he’s tough, and he’s got things to say if you’ll just shut up and listen.”

The room went quiet as the men soberly took in what Olsen had said. Then Colonel Hogan spoke up.

“Men, I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. You cannot badger and tease Newkirk about how he talks,” Hogan said forcefully. “He is a critical member of this team, and you undermine his ability to perform his important responsibilities every time you pick on him. He keeps bouncing back, but I’m tired. I have more important things to do than to negotiate with grown men who insist on acting like schoolboys. So I will tell you one last time: The next person who mimics, teases or bullies Newkirk about his stutter or his age can look forward to a transfer to another barracks.” He looked directly at Addison as he said it.

“What about him fighting, Sir? He’s always got his dukes up,” Addison said.

“He’ll hear about that from me. You just focus on doing your part, Addison.”

The crowd broke up as the men retreated to their bunks. Hogan sat at the table with LeBeau, Carter, Kinch, Olsen and Garlotti, sipping coffee and discussing the next mission. In his mind, Hogan was tempted to cross Addison off his list for future missions, but he knew that wasn’t the way to build trust. He’d keep him in reserve a while longer.

For the next hour, Hogan consumed coffee, doled out assignments, and played several hands of gin. He intervened every time LeBeau made noise about checking on Newkirk, urging him to let him sleep it off. He’d have to have a word with LeBeau separately about his tendency to coddle and baby Newkirk; a little mothering was one thing, but too much was bad for Newkirk and it made it harder for the other men to see him as mature and competent.

Finally, Hogan rose and stretched. Newkirk had rested enough. His pain should be wearing off, and supper time was approaching. They still had a few things to discuss, and there was time for a private chat.

Hogan pushed open his door, expecting to have to wake Newkirk up. But his bunk was empty. And the window was ajar.


	35. The Escape Artist

_Stupid. Impulsive. I made a right mess of things._ Peter Newkirk was lecturing himself as he hid in the shadows between Barracks 2 and 3, his eyes on the window to the Kommandant’s office. He consulted his watch. _Come on, Klink, you never work this late._ He was desperate to light up; a hit of nicotine would do wonders to ease the lingering pain in his cobblers. But he couldn’t take the chance. So he waited.

Finally, the office light flicked off. Newkirk hung back for several minutes to see if his hunch was right, and it was. It was Friday night. Klink’s staff car pulled up to the steps, and minutes later, Klink stepped onto his porch, darted his eyes around, and preened as he stepped down the stairs. He was no catch, but he nevertheless usually managed to snag a Friday evening date with some poor unsuspecting girl or some desperate widow. Newkirk watched with relief as the staff car pulled away from the front of the building and all the guards snapped to attention as their Kommandant motored off. That made it so much easier to dash across the parade ground to the porch of the Kommandatur.

Letting himself in was a snap; the entrance was nicely hidden from view, and he and the lock were old acquaintances. As he entered the room, he sniffed the air; today it had been Helga, judging from the perfume that still hung there. Oranges, lemons, lavender, rosemary—it was 4711, a popular German eau de cologne, young, fresh and ladylike. It was nothing at all like the Tabu worn by Hilda, with its notes of patchouli and cloves and wickedness. The sight, scent and thought of Helga made Newkirk feel warm and a little frisky. Thoughts of Hilda brought on a rather more immediate reaction, not because he liked her more, but because she was so bloody alluring. Maybe the excitement of being back in business was having an effect, too. Newkirk said a silent prayer of thanks that his bits remained in proper working order, recited the 13-times table in his head until the response died down at 13x17=221, and then went about his task.

He knew what he was looking for, and it was bound to be here in the outer office where the supplies were kept. He went through a file drawer and a credenza and found nothing. Then he opened the cupboard where the pencils, ink bottles, rubber bands, staples, and carbon paper were all stored. There, on a high shelf, he spotted two boxes with a Red Cross marked on the outside. That was it.

Newkirk hauled the boxes down. There were plenty of letter forms, certainly enough for every man to have had two, though not enough for three or four. He helped himself to 20 sheets, enough to replace what he had so recklessly destroyed, plus a few to spare in case of copy blotting. Not that anyone but Colonel Hogan had ink; they all wrote in pencil, but it was the thought that counted. He placed the boxes back up on the shelf, wondering why the Kommandant hadn’t issued more. He was probably spacing out the supply to make sure he had a sufficient stash of them next time, since they were no value to anyone but prisoners, he decided. It was a vaguely humane reason.

He tucked the letter forms into his waistband and under his vest. There. Even if he was caught out, no one would see them. He took a moment to look around the outer office, and quickly memorized a few calendar entries to report back to Colonel Hogan. Then he peered through a crack in the door and slipped out on to the porch.

He was about to dash across the compound when he saw Colonel Hogan walking with Schultz. Bloody hell, he thought, it was a search party. Well, he decided, he could handle Schultz, and Colonel Hogan was likely to have ideas of his own. So he sat down on the steps of the Kommandantur and waited to be noticed.

“Look, Colonel Hogan, I have found him! Oh, Newkirk, you naughty boy! You know you should not be out of the barracks now! Appell is not for two more hours!” Schultz was speeding toward him at remarkable velocity for a man of his size and shape.

Newkirk dipped his head down and let his lip tremble as Schultz and Hogan arrived and loomed over him.

“Well, there he is! We found him. Terrific work, Schultz. I’ll just take him back with me.” Hogan sounded cheerful, but the way he grabbed Newkirk’s arm left no doubt that he meant business.

“Nein, nein. Newkirk, explain yourself! I should put you back in the cooler!”

“Please don’t do that, Schultzie!” he replied, looking up with watery eyes. “I j-j-j-just came to ffffind you.”

“Find me? Why?”

“To apologize, of course,” Newkirk said, dipping his head down. “I’m sorry I kicked you in the shin. I w-wasn’t angry at you, I was angry at meself.” He looked up. “I’m very, very sorry. I won’t do it again.” He blinked his eyes a few times and bit his lip.

Standing just behind Schultz, Colonel Hogan rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help but feel a little admiration. Newkirk could really turn on the pathos when he wanted to.

There was no doubt it was working when in the next breath, Schultz said softly, “You are a very good boy when you want to be, Newkirk. Now go with Colonel Hogan and don’t let me catch you outside again until it’s time for roll call. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Newkirk replied.

“Yes what?” Hogan asked.

Newkirk cut his eyes over to Hogan and then back at Schultz. “Yes, Sergeant Schultz,” he said, then resumed biting his lip. “Thank you, Sergeant Schultz.”

Back in the barracks, Newkirk pulled up his shirt and triumphantly produced the letter forms so that all the men could rewrite their letters home.

“There was plenty, and they’ll never notice a few missing sheets,” Newkirk announced. “Now everyone can send a letter after all. And we’ve got extra tinder for the fire, once all the old letters dry out.”

“Hey, great going, Newkirk,” Garlotti said.

“Yeah, that’s terrific. I really need to write to this girl I know in Minneapolis,” Olsen said.

As quickly as the paper was distributed, Newkirk could feel himself being pulled away toward Colonel Hogan’s quarters. The Colonel had him by the elbow—and he wasn’t making a suggestion.

“Sit,” Hogan said fiercely as he closed the door.

Newkirk sighed and took a place on the bottom bunk. He hung his head, but this time it was no ruse. He’d been with Colonel Hogan long enough to know when the sky was about to crack open.

“What were you thinking?” Hogan demanded as he paced in front of Newkirk.

“I was th-th-thinking I would get letter ffforms to replace the ones I ruined, Sir. And I did,” Newkirk replied.

“So you let yourself in Klink’s office.”

Newkirk sighed. “Yes, Sssir. I know how, as you w-well know.”

“You could have been caught, thrown back in the cooler, or worse,” Hogan said.

“But I wasn’t, Sir! Look at me, I’m back in one piece, and no one’s any w-wiser,” Newkirk protested.

“Oh, really? If it was such a good idea, why did you sneak out the window?”

Newkirk didn’t have an answer for that. He just shrugged his shoulders. Finally he said, “I, I, I, I knew you wouldn’t let me.”

“Exactly,” Hogan said. “I wouldn’t have, because it was a reckless move. You didn’t have any intelligence or any backup. You had no idea what you were going to run into, or even whether I had something else planned. I just spent half an hour looking for you. What am I going to do with you, Peter?” He crossed his arms and looked down at Newkirk.

“Do what you would have done before this stupid nightmare started! Four months ago, you would have been patting me on the back for this! I did what I set out to do, and there’s no harm done!”

“Peter,” Hogan said. His hand was on his forehead like he had a bad headache coming on, and he let out a deep breath. “I made a promise. I’m supposed to keep you safe. You’re making it very hard for me to honor my commitment.”

“Keep me safe? Where were you when Addison was putting the boot in?” Newkirk snapped. Hogan’s eyebrows shot up but he remained dead silent. Newkirk let out a breath and added, “Sorry, Sir.”

Hogan pulled up a stool and sat in front of Newkirk. “You need protection from Addison?”

Newkirk shrugged. “Not really. It’s j-j-just…” he sighed. “I can’t explain it. Every time you turn your back, he’s taunting me. I’m j-j-j-just bloody tired of him, is all.”

Hogan gestured to the door. “There’s not a guy out there that doesn’t see it, Peter. Either Addison’s going to stop or he’s going to be living in another barracks. You’ve got to count on us—on me—to fix this and stop getting into fights with him. All right?”

It wasn’t all right. Newkirk was really frustrated. “What am I supposed to do if he starts in on me, Sir?”

“Tell me,” Hogan said adamantly. “Don’t try to handle everything yourself.”

“Oh, run to Daddy, is that it?” Newkirk snapped. “Because that’s what they’ll say I’m doing if I take everything straight to you!”

The word stunned Hogan. Daddy. That was him. That probably was how the other men viewed his connection to Newkirk now.

“My job as your guardian is to help you be ready to take on the world yourself, Peter,” Hogan said softly. “We’re figuring out together what that means.”

They sat quietly, both reflecting. Finally Newkirk spoke up.

“It was j-j-j-j-just a stupid drawing,” he said. “I didn’t want him to see it. He had no business taking it from mmme.”

“It was very impressive drawing, Peter. You’re good,” Hogan replied. “And you’re right, he should have minded his own business. But you don’t have to hide your talents.”

“I do, because he thinks I’m soft,” Newkirk snapped.

“Who cares what he thinks? There’s nothing wrong with loving your family, Peter,” Hogan replied gently. “They’re important to you.”

Newkirk went quiet for a while, then spoke again. “I’m worn out, Sir,” he said, his voice shaking just a bit. “Maybe I’m too young to be a man, but I’m too old to be a child or to put up with being treated like one. So if Addison pushes me around, I’m going to push back.” He ended on an assertive note; he had pulled himself back together quickly.

Hogan was nodding. “All right, Peter, self-defense is one thing. That’s fair. But there’s a big difference between defending yourself and escalating things. Are you telling he’s the first one throwing a punch? Or is that you?”

Newkirk stopped and thought. The Colonel was right. “It’s usually me,” he admitted. “Always, actually. I always hit him ffffirst because I’m so ffrustrated with him tormenting me.”

“That’s my impression too,” Hogan said. “He’s using words to get under your skin. And you’re responding with your fists.”

“Because I can’t respond with ww-wwords, and you know it,” Newkirk snapped. “Even if I’m thinking the w-w-words I want to use, I can’t get them out, and that j-j-j-j-just m-makes it worse with him!” He looked exasperated, as if Colonel Hogan simply didn’t understand how hard it was to be Peter Newkirk.

He realized he needed to say that. “Colonel Hogan, it’s v-very hard being me. It’s vvvvery hard having this st-stammer tripping me all the time. I’m used to being mmmisunderstood and ridiculed and l-l-laughed at. I hate opening my mmmmouth. I don’t like to talk,” he said. “Around mmmost people, n-not you and my mmmmates,” he added.

“It always comes back to this,” Hogan said. “And I know how hard it is. But Peter, it’s OK that you stammer. That's not a problem.”

“Of course it’s a problem!” Newkirk said incredulously. “It’s been a problem my whole bleeding life! It’s the story of my life!”

“No,” Hogan said. “The story of your life is feeling _ashamed_ that you stammer. It’s feeling you have to apologize for it or hide it. And you don’t, certainly not around me or your friends or anyone who cares about you. It’s one part of who you are and it’s perfectly OK. It’s not the stammer that’s getting you into trouble. It’s your fists.”

Now Newkirk was nodding a little. He truly hadn’t considered the possibility of not being embarrassed or frustrated when he stammered. It was so deeply ingrained that this was a broken part of him that he had to fix that it was shocking to hear anyone say it was OK.

“Colonel, I am really very sorry. I felt awful that all the letters burned up. I w-w-wanted to mmmake it up to other lads. I expect it was really stupid of me to go off on my own, though.”

“I understand. It’s OK. When you disappeared, you had me worried, because … well, whether you like or not, you’re my boy. So you’re stuck with me worrying about you.”

Newkirk’s mouth was slightly open as he nodded. “All, alright Sir. You can worry about me. I worry about you too.”

“That’s because we’re family. Families worry about one another,” Hogan said. He pulled Newkirk into a hug. “Don’t start any more fistfights, all right?”

“Yes, Gov,” Newkirk said into his neck. He let Hogan hold him close for a few moments, until he started to notice a tiny problem: Lack of oxygen. “Could you let me go now, Sir? I really can’t breathe,” he said.

Hogan released him and laughed. “Sorry, that keeps happening,” he said. “I’m known for my bear hugs.”

Newkirk looked down at his hands and smiled shyly. He didn’t actually mind, but he wasn’t ready to say that. “Colonel, there was one other thing,” he said. “On the calendar, I saw that General Burkhalter is arriving on Wednesday with a chap named Fritz Bowman. And on Friday, Klink has plans to…”

As Newkirk filled him in on the details on Klink’s schedule, Hogan was listening attentively and grinning inside. He liked Newkirk’s instincts and intelligence. He liked his raw, emotional honesty. He liked to know he could help calm him down and see the potential within himself.

He liked being the person that Newkirk was learning to trust.


	36. Speaking Up

That night during supper and rollcall, Newkirk was unusually quiet. He kept glancing over at Addison, and Hogan worried that he was brooding. After rollcall, when the men crowded into Colonel Hogan’s office to review final plans for a night mission, Newkirk followed his friends, contributing where he could, but knowing there was only so much he could do.

However, Newkirk was thinking, there was something they could do for him. Something he needed them to do.

“B-before you all go, could I have a wword with you?” he asked.

“Sure, Peter,” Hogan said, crossing his arms as he leaned into his bunk post. “What’s on your mind?”

“I, I don’t think it’s enough for you to t-tell Addison to stop badgering me, Sir. I th-think I have to say it, and everyone in the b-barracks needs to hear me,” he said.

Hogan had been hoping he would come to this realization on his own. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “When were you thinking of doing this?”

“T-tonight, before you go. Now, actually,” Newkirk said. “I’m n-n-nervous, but I, I have to do this or it’s never going to stop.”

That soon? Hogan couldn’t help but worry. He, LeBeau and Carter were going to be out on a mission; Kinch would be down below, monitoring transmissions during their absence. He wasn’t sure he wanted Newkirk to have this conversation when he couldn’t be around to observe the aftermath.

But Kinch spoke up before he could object. “What do you need us to do, Pete?” he asked.

“J-just be there and listen to me,” Newkirk said. “And d-d-don’t interrupt.”

“We’d never interrupt you,” LeBeau said, squeezing his forearm.

“What I mean is, even if it’s hard for me, let me ffffinish. Don’t try to speak for me. I know what I need to say,” Newkirk said.

“You got it, buddy,” Carter said.

“Alright,” Hogan said. “Say your piece.” The timing might not be perfect, but it rarely was, and Peter seemed to have a plan.

They filed into the barracks, where the other men were busy with all kinds of activities before lights out. Some were playing checkers and cards; some were reading; some were arguing about baseball. No one was paying attention to Hogan’s core team until Kinch issued a shrill whistle. He pointed to Newkirk, who by now was standing at the head of the table in the middle of the room.

Everyone’s eyes turned to Newkirk, and for a moment, he wanted to flee. But he held his ground.

“I, I, I have something important to say to you, Addison. And to everyone,” Newkirk said. The barracks went quiet.

“Addison, I d-don’t want to fffight with you anymore. And I want you to st-st-stop making fffun of me. And not just because Colonel Hogan tells you that you have to stop,” Newkirk said. “I want you to understand… mmmme so that you’ll wwwwant to st-stop.”

Newkirk looked around anxiously. He wasn’t used to speaking in his own voice in front of a crowd. This would be so much easier if he was playing a role or wearing a costume or telling a story, but this was actually him and he felt terribly exposed. He wanted to slide under the table; he also knew he had to go on. LeBeau had taken a seat on the bench next to where he stood, and Carter was on the other side of LeBeau. They were looking at him intently, and Carter’s big eyes told Newkirk he had his full attention. They both wanted to hear what he wanted to say, and that was enough to keep him on his feet.

Newkirk paused for a long moment, then lifted his chin and looked at Hogan and Kinch. They were standing by the door to Hogan’s quarters, and they each gave him a small nod of encouragement. That was enough to make him forge ahead.

“Addison, you know p-p-perfectly well that I have a st-st-st-stammer. And I know it. Of c-course I know it. So w-when you p-p-p-point it out to me over and over, w-what exactly do you think you’re doing, other than make me want to belt you?”

Addison dipped his head. Bartoli, Belknap and Harper shifted uncomfortably. Hogan’s eyebrows shot up. He wasn’t sure this was off to a good start.

“J-j-just because I st-stammer doesn’t mean I’m st-stupid. I’m not. And I’m not sh-sh-shy. I j-j-just bloody stammer. Do you want to know why I st-stammer? Good, because sssso do I. If you fffind out, let me know, alright? All I know is that I’ve st-st-stammered since I can remember. I don’t have an explanation for you, so I’m sorry I can’t help you with that. But it’s not as if you’re going to c-catch it.”

Newkirk took another breath and felt a hand on his back. It was LeBeau, coaxing him to keep going. Across the room, Hogan’s expression had changed from concern to understanding. A smile was forming on his lips.

“I, I, I want you to know that it’s r-really, r-rrreally hard to have this,” Newkirk said. “It’s not a j-j-j-joke even though I’m sure I sound ffffunny sometimes. I’d probably laugh too if I didn’t understand it. B-b-but I work all the time to keep it under control b-because I wwant to be able to say w-what’s on my mmmind. In case you haven’t nnnoticed, I actually llll-, like to talk when I’m with mmmy friends.” He laid a hand on LeBeau’s shoulder, and around the room, there were grins and murmurs of agreement. Yes, Newkirk definitely liked to talk.

“But this st-stammer of mine is like a bleedin’ s-sssaboteur. I can be having a p-perfectly fffffine conversation and then this p-p-persistent little bastard leaps out of the shadows. Sometimes he throws a grenade in my path, and it blows up and leaves rubble, b-b-but I can get around it.” Then he looked at Carter and smiled a little. “Other times he s-ssets his detonators and explodes an entire bridge, and then there’s no way ffffor me to get across. When that happens, I have to st-st-st-st-st… st-st-st-st...”

He paused and took a deep breath. Many of his friends kept their eyes on him, but several men around the room looked away from his struggle. “I have to st-st-st-stop and th-think and ffffff, ffffind another way. And I can’t do that if you’re all telling me to ‘take a breath’ or ‘th-think about what you want to say.’ I know what I want to say! I j-j-j-j-just can’t say it as fffast as you can! So how about if _you_ take a breath and let _mmme_ finish? I want to fffinish what I’m s-s-s-saying. I always want that. Right, Olsen?”

“Yeah, Newkirk. I know that now,” Olsen said. “It took me a while to get that, but I know. And you have stuff to say.”

Newkirk stopped to wipe at his eyes, and Carter started to interject, but LeBeau put a hand on his shoulder and shushed him. Newkirk smiled tightly at both of them and carried on.

“And, and, and here’s, here’s the important thing. Everyone stammers. Your st-stammer may not sssound like mine, but everyone has ssssomething that is very hard for him. Me and Carter, we’re mmmates. His stammer is not knowing ww-when to shut up.” He tipped his head apologetically at Carter who grinned and nodded in recognition.

“You know it’s true, mate,” Newkirk said softly.

“I sure do,” Carter said.

Then Newkirk leaned an arm on LeBeau’s shoulder. “LeBeau, well, he knows me inside out and we’ve been through hell together. His st-stammer is h-h-holding his t-temper, especially if you say anything bad about France or his c-cooking. That’s _my_ j-j-job, so you’d not try it or I’ll thump you,” he said, with a hint of a grin creeping onto his face. Around the room, men chuckled and nodded. “And if you say anything b-bad about mmme to him, I ffffeel sorry for you,” Newkirk added, cutting the air with his hand.

LeBeau beamed and whispered, “Oui, mon frérot. I have your back, and you have mine.”

Newkirk looked across the room, where Hogan and Kinch were standing. “K-Kinch’s st-stammer is hanging b-back when he should be speaking up. B-b-because he’s the wisest p-person here, but he d-doesn’t expect mmost people to value his opinion.” Kinch quirked an eyebrow and nodded. “If, if you want to learn how to be strong inside, you sh-should all listen to Kinch,” Newkirk added.

He dipped his head again and bit his lip before he spoke.

“Colonel Hogan is my … g-guardian and my commanding officer and the, the, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a proper D-d-d-dad. And his stammer, it’s, well, it’s, it’s s-sssomething to do with a weakness ffor women, as it is for mmmany, many men. B-but he’s working on it, j-j-j-just like I’m working on mine.” He looked at Hogan, fearing daggers, but instead got a warm and encouraging look.

“For you, Addison, I don’t know what the hell your st-stammer is, but it’s really bad and it’s interfering with everyone’s ability to like and respect you. No, no one wants to be around you because you’re so nnnnasty to mmme, and I’m j-j-just a l-l-little lad.” At that, Newkirk grinned broadly at his own joke, and got a round of laughter to break up the intense mood. “Ssssso, sssso I think you should wwwwork on that and st-st-stop bothering me. I’ll w-worry about my stammer, and you worry about yours, alright, mate?”

“Uh, OK,” Addison said. “Sorry, Newkirk. I’ve been a real jerk.”

“You sure have,” Garlotti said. “It’s a lucky thing for you that you’re _our_ jerk. If you were a Kraut guard who acted like this, we would have made your life miserable a long time ago.”

“Well, that’s all I have to say,” Newkirk said. “If you c-could try l-listening to me and ignore the st-stammer, I think I’d have to punch fewer people.” He sat down and grinned with relief as LeBeau wrapped an arm tightly around him. Hogan and Kinch came over to pat him on the back, Carter gave him an "attaboy," and Olsen, of all people, pulled him to his feet for a hug. Soon, Garlotti was tousling his hair and Harper was giving him a friendly punch in the arm and men around the room were coming up to tell him he was right.

And Addison came through the crowd. He loomed over Newkirk for a moment, looking uncertain, then stuck out his hand. “You’re a smart kid,” he said as he exchanged a firm handshake with Newkirk.

“Smart man,” Kinch corrected him. Newkirk looked up at him and beamed.

“Smart man,” Addison agreed, with a genuine smile.


	37. Separation Anxiety

Down in the tunnel that night, Newkirk kept Kinch company while they waited for Hogan, LeBeau and Carter to return from a mission to a nearby spark plug factory. Their job was to strategically plant a few charges, then leave the scene before the explosion.

For the first hour and a half, Newkirk was as chipper as Kinch had ever seen him, chattering away merrily about football and cricket and films he’d seen. He really was, as LeBeau often said, _un moulin à paroles_ , talking and talking until he eventually ran out of steam. But he finally quieted down and started checking his watch. He took up some mending to keep his hands busy and sat beside Kinch, still smiling, still riding high.

“You did a good job tonight,” Kinch said. “I think you really got through to Addison.”

“Yeah?” Newkirk said with a grin. “I didn’t think I’d be able to fffffinish. My knees were knocking the whole time.”

“It didn’t show,” Kinch said. “And yes, I think he’ll back off now.” He smiled at Newkirk, who suddenly frowned.

“How long are they going to be gone, Kinch?” Newkirk asked. “It seems like they should be back by now.”

“They’re fine,” Kinch said. “I wouldn’t worry for at least an hour.”

Newkirk needed a distraction, so Kinch asked him to read out loud. “What book are you reading now, Pete?” he asked.

“It’s a short one called _The Hobbit, or There and Back Again_. I’ve got it down here. D-d-d-d-didn’t want the other chaps to see it. They’ll think it’s a k-k-kid’s book, but I don’t think it is,” Newkirk replied. “It’s got dwarves and goblins and a magnificent dragon, and it takes place in a land called Mmmmiddle Earth. Do you want me to read it?”

“Sounds great,” Kinch said.

“Right, then. Shall I start at the beginning?”

“No better place to start,” Kinch said, smiling with encouragement.

“Alright, then,” Newkirk said. He thumbed to the opening page. “I think you’re going to really like this,” he said, and then he began to read:

_In a hole in the gr-gr-ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wwwet hole, fffilled with the ends of wwworms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, ssssandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit hole, and that means comfort._

Newkirk looked up at Kinch and smiled. “Rather a lot like this place, isn’t it?”

Kinch laughed in agreement, and listened in fascination as the tale unwound and as Newkirk’s stammer took a back seat to his performance. He read on and on, introducing Bilbo and Gandalf and a pack of thirteen dwarves. He recounted how they cleaned out Bilbo’s pantry before they set down to business, and then squabbled among themselves. Newkirk was reading in the voice of Gandalf the wizard.

_Let’s have no more argument. I have chosen Mr. Baggins and that ought to be enough for all of you. If I say he is a Burglar, a Burglar he is, or will be when the time comes. There is a lot more in him than you guess, and a deal more than he has any idea of himself._

“Hey, read that last line again, Pete,” Kinch said. “I want to write it down.” He thought, but didn’t say, _That’s you to a T._

XXX

Three chapters later, Newkirk put the book down and huffed out a breath. “When are they coming back?”

“Soon,” Kinch said. He handed Newkirk a pencil and they started in on a game of hangman. “The first word’s an adjective,” Kinch said as he scratched out nine blanks.

Newkirk quickly got the vowels in place, a technique he’d taught Carter. He concentrated on the sheet of paper in front of him. _ O _ _ E _ E _ _.

“Alright, I already did A, so now B,” Newkirk said.

“Nope.”

Newkirk added the second arm to his hanging man. “C, then,” he said.

Kinch filled it in. C O _ _ E _ E _ _.

Newkirk stared at it. “What does it end with?” he whispered. “Let’s try D.”

“Nope. Draw the torso. You’re going to hang soon, pal,” Kinch warned.

Newkirk stared some more. “T,” he said decisively.

Kinch nodded. C O _ _ E T E _ T.

“P,” Newkirk said with a grin. As Kinch penciled it in, Newkirk added, “Look, it’s got my name in it. Competent.”

They played another round, then moved onto a game of checkers, and as they played, Kinch decided to plunge into a topic he’d been hoping to discuss when they had some privacy.

“I was thinking when I watched you challenge Addison… you’ve stood up to bullies before, haven’t you? Because it seems like you really knew what to do,” he said to Newkirk almost casually. There were questions Kinch had been curious about; he’d seen the burn marks, and he knew as well as anyone that boys didn’t leave home to join the military at age 14 unless there was a good reason for it.

Newkirk didn’t even flinch at Kinch’s observation, but he also didn’t answer, so Kinch pressed on.

“You went off to a school when you were just little, huh?”

“The sssssummer after I turned 10,” Newkirk said. Unconsciously, he reached into his hem, pulled out the captain bars, and turned them over and over in his fingers. “Are you sure they should still be out, Kinch? It’s been hours.” He rubbed at his knee.

“They’re fine. We expected it to take two and a half to three hours,” Kinch said. “So back to you… how did you get in trouble when you were such a young kid?”

“I got caught in bad company,” Newkirk said, shrugging. “In Mayfair. I got off easy—a year’s holiday with free room and board, and six of the best.” He could see Kinch was puzzling over that comment. “Six strokes with a birch cane. It was all right. I’d had worse,” he said.

Kinch winced as Newkirk shrugged.

“Mayfair? That’s a pretty tony part of London,” Kinch said.

“Yeah, well, there’s no point picking pockets in poor areas, is there? If you want to make some dosh, you to go where the money is,” Newkirk said. “A few streets in Mayfair were our patch when I was a wee one.” He rubbed and turned over the captain bars again, and then tucked them back into the jacket hem. “Why aren’t they back?”

“Shh. Don’t worry. When you say ‘our patch,’ do you mean you were in a gang?”

“I’d call it an enterprise,” Newkirk said. His cryptic answer meant that he wasn’t interested in elaborating on that particular point, but he did have something else to say.

“Yes, I got b-b-bullied for the way I talked and lots of other reasons but it wasn’t all bad at that school. I learnt my trade there,” Newkirk said. “Cutting out p-p-patterns, making shirts and trousers. They’re g-g-g-good honest skills to have, and I wasn’t getting any of that in the East End. Of course, I also had the chance to improve my other craft. There’s no better place to pick up new tricks than in an approved school, surrounded by other scoundrels,” he said with a sly grin. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t as clever as I thought I was, so less than a year later, I was back.”

“Oh brother,” Kinch said.

“Yeah. I got out the s-s-summer before I turned 13 and tried to go back to school, but I just couldn’t st-st-stick it after being gone for so long. So I lied about my age and got a j-j-j-job cutting out trousers at a tailoring establishment on Savile Row. I really did try to stay out of trouble, but it kept calling my nnnname, and I was doing little jobs in the evenings and at weekends. Then the w-w-w-war broke out, and since lying about my age had gone so swimmingly the fffffirst time, I gave it another try. And look where it got me. B-b-b-back in a prison, the very place I was trying to avoid,” Newkirk said with a grin.

“Well, you weren’t exactly sent here for bad behavior, Pete,” Kinch said.

“That’s true. But w-w-when I’m done here, I hope I shall never see another pr-pr-prison as long as I live,” Newkirk said. “I think Colonel Hogan would be very disappointed in me if I didn’t st-st-straighten up. And so would you and Louis and Carter.” He bit his lip, then looked up again. “And I have me brothers to think about. I have to be a g-g-good role mmmodel for them now, don’t I? I don’t w-w-w-want ‘em to end up like me.”

Kinch was about to explain how lucky Newkirk’s brothers would be to be even a little bit like him. But suddenly a noisy trio descended the ladder, fresh from their mission and burbling with triumph and relief. They crowded into the radio room where Kinch and Newkirk sat to report in. Hogan hadn’t even gotten a word out when Newkirk lit into Carter.

“It’s about time you lot got back,” Newkirk said. “You’ve been gone for three hours. It shouldn’t take that long to plant a few little charges!”

He was riled up, but his shoulders had relaxed and the anxiety that had been etched in his forehead earlier had disappeared.

**XXX**

A month later came the bad news that Tiger—one of their most important operatives and everyone’s sweetheart—had been taken to Gestapo headquarters in Paris.

“Newkirk? Print some French money,” Hogan had ordered.

Newkirk never hesitated. Colonel Hogan had a job for him and had called him by his proper, grownup name. In an instant he was pushing his way past Bouchet down the ladder, saying “Right, Colonel” over his shoulder. It felt good to be useful.

When he surfaced an hour later with a supply of francs cranked out and cooling off down in the tunnel, Newkirk charged into Colonel Hogan’s office, and was shocked at what he saw.

A suitcase sat open on Colonel Hogan’s bunk, and it was partially packed. Where on earth had that come from? Confused, he popped back into the barracks. LeBeau was at his bunk, stuffing his duffel bag.

“What’s going on?” Newkirk asked in confusion. “Are we going somewhere?”

“I’m going to Paris with Colonel Hogan,” LeBeau said firmly. “We are going to liberate Tiger from Gestapo headquarters.” He stopped what he was doing for a moment and clutched the pole on his bunk. “Ah, I can hardly believe it. A week in Paris. _Ma belle Paris_.”

“You _and_ the Colonel?” Newkirk asked. He could feel the bottom dropping out of his stomach. “Where is he?”

“Bothering Klink, what else? He’s trying to get the travel plans out of him. Schultz says we are leaving early in the morning. With Klink that could mean 6:30, 10:30 or half-past two,” LeBeau said with a shrug.

Newkirk sat down on LeBeau’s bunk. “But… but… you’re both going? Isn’t that d-d-d-dangerous?”

LeBeau had been so wrapped up in his excitement that he had missed the anxiety in Newkirk’s voice. Now he couldn’t ignore it. The barracks was empty except for the two of them. He sat down next to Newkirk and put an arm around him.

“Everything we do is dangerous, _mon fr_ _érot_ ; you know that. But this is no more dangerous than anything else,” LeBeau said in a soothing voice.

“What? You’re leaving camp dr-dressed in civilian clothes and traveling ffffour hundred miles away to G-G-G-German-occupied Paris! How am I missing the ‘no more dangerous’ part? How are you getting there, anyway?”

“We’re riding with the luggage on top of Klink’s staff car,” LeBeau said. He bit his lip pensively. Maybe Newkirk had a point.

“Oh, well, that’s perfectly sensible. Foolish of me to worry at all, really,” Newkirk replied. He shook his head and looked incensed. “And you’re b-b-both going? Who’s going to…”

LeBeau smiled indulgently and he pulled Newkirk closer. “Who’s going to look after you?”

“No, not me! Who’s going to look after _you_?” Newkirk shook his head with fury, then suddenly melted. He surrendered and laid his head on LeBeau’s shoulder. He took a gulp of air, and said softly, “You can’t both go. Can’t I come with you?”

“You’ll be alright, Pierre,” LeBeau said in a comforting tone. But as quickly as he capitulated, Newkirk recovered. He lifted his head up and directed an exasperated look at LeBeau.

Pierre didn’t want to be left behind but he’d never admit that he was scared for himself, LeBeau thought as his heart throbbed for his young friend. Time to change tactics; he amended his statement.

“ _Colonel Hogan and I_ will be alright on our own, and Kinch will be here to oversee everything. He’ll need your help, _mon pote_. It’s only a week.”

“A week!” Newkirk exclaimed. “No! You can’t go for a week!” He pulled himself out of LeBeau’s grasp and looked at him angrily. “It’s too long, Louis! It’s reckless, that’s what it is!”

“Colonel Hogan always has a plan. And remember, Paris is my home. Even with Krauts on the street, it is not dangerous to me. I can outfox them in my own city,” LeBeau said proudly. “Colonel Hogan and I will be a good team.”

“Well, isn’t that jammy for you,” Newkirk sulked. He got up and walked to the table. With shaky hands, he lit a cigarette and sat there, lips pursed and looking glum. LeBeau let him pout, knowing that Pierre always needed time to let a dark mood burn off.

As Newkirk moped, Colonel Hogan came through the door, whistling cheerfully, with Carter and Kinch on his heels. Hogan stopped at the table when he saw Newkirk sitting, the picture of lassitude, with his chin propped on his fist as he chain-smoked. The Colonel shot his eyes over to LeBeau, who answered by raising his eyebrows.

“Everything OK?” Hogan asked Newkirk.

“The French b-b-bank notes you requested are ready for you d-down below, Sir,” Newkirk said without looking up. “Reichsmarks would be mmmore useful, though, and they’ll take up less room in your wallet,” he added sourly. “You only need one of those for every 20 bleeding francs. Worthless rubbish.”

There was one thing even his dearest friend couldn’t do in LeBeau’s presence without immediate repercussions, and that was to insult France in even the smallest way. Even if the insult happened to be true, which this one was. His temper flared instantly.

“Francs are better unless you want a punch in the nose,” LeBeau snapped. “No patriotic Frenchman wants to sully his hands with Reichsmarks. I couldn’t possibly use those in France.”

“ _Travail, famille, patrie_ ,” Newkirk taunted, spitting out the words that were printed on the currency in German-occupied France. “It’s a far cry from _liberté, égalité, fraternité_ , ain’t it?”

“Stop trampling my beautiful language,” LeBeau said. “ _Mon Colonel_ , he’s just sulking because he can’t go, _n’est ce pas, Pierre_?”

“Oh, shut up,” Newkirk said. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”

“It’s always nice to see you two getting along,” Hogan deadpanned. “Peter, it’s only a week.”

“Only a week, he says,” Newkirk replied mockingly. “Well, silly me. That’s hardly any time at all! Sir, you’ve never been gone ffffrom here a week!”

Kinch, who had come in with the Colonel, stood back and crossed his arms, pondering that statement. Newkirk worried when the others were gone from camp for three hours. A week without Colonel Hogan and LeBeau was going to be a challenge for him -- and for everyone around him.

Hogan sat on the bench beside Newkirk, his back to the table as Newkirk sat facing toward. “I won’t lie to you, Peter, there are risks,” he said softly. “But we can’t leave Tiger in the Gestapo’s hands. You know what could happen.”

Newkirk flushed at the thought and the painful memory it evoked. Yes, he had been interrogated by the Gestapo on more than one occasion, and he knew what some of their sickest officers were capable of doing to pink-cheeked lads. For women, it could only be worse. “I know,” he said quietly.

“I’ll be in Paris with the best possible person to guide me—LeBeau. I know you don’t like letting him go off on his own, but for the next week I need him. I’ll take care of him, OK?” His voice dropped lower so only Peter could hear. “And he’ll make sure I don’t get into any trouble I can’t handle.”

Newkirk nodded. At least Colonel Hogan understood. He was worried for his mates; that was all.

“Good,” Hogan continued. “And you’re going to stay here and take care of Kinch and Carter, alright? Because they’re going to need your help. And if you look after them, they’ll look after you. Remember, we’re family. That’s how it works.”

Newkirk’s lip was still jutted out as he looked up tentatively at Colonel Hogan, hardly daring to look him in the eyes. He knew the Gov was right, and he wanted to trust him. If anyone could get to Paris and back safely under these circumstances, it was his … it was Colonel Hogan. At least the Colonel didn’t think he was afraid like LeBeau obviously did, Newkirk told himself. Because that would be ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter includes a different take on the episode "A Tiger Hunt in Paris." In that episode, Newkirk knew at the same time as everyone else that Colonel Hogan was planning to go to Paris. In this re-telling, he ran straight down into the tunnel to do a task Hogan assigned him, so he didn't find out until later that Hogan and LeBeau were both leaving on a risky trip. I think even a grownup Newkirk would have been freaked out by this!


	38. Missing You

The next morning, Newkirk sat and watched as Kinch and Carter helped Hogan and LeBeau prepare for their departure to Paris. Carter was at the door, monitoring Schultz’s movements as he loaded up Klink’s staff car. Kinch was jotting down directions from Colonel Hogan about how to handle any issues that arose over the next week.

Newkirk could have stepped up to help, but he was too angry at Hogan and LeBeau for taking such a big risk. So he sat at the table, running through shuffles and flourishes with his cards, practically daring anyone to expect a snarl if they interrupted him.

Then a hand landed on his shoulder and a body leaned into him from behind. He knew from the position and the weight that it was LeBeau. The Frenchman bent to whisper in Newkirk’s ear.

“In English you say, ‘I miss you.’ But do you know what we say in French?”

Newkirk shrugged, trying to dislodge LeBeau’s hand from its resting place and scowling petulantly.

“Hmm?” LeBeau persisted. He rubbed Newkirk’s shoulder, a soothing gesture that had worked dozens of times before. Slowly Newkirk let go of his anger and looked up to face his friend.

“We say ‘ _tu me manques_.’ It means ‘you are missing from me.’ Like an arm or a leg or my heart,” LeBeau said softly. “It means you are part of me. You understand the difference?”

Newkirk said nothing, but he leaned his head into LeBeau’s side. He dug his fingernails into his arm to suppress a sniffle, and finally he nodded. “Yes, I understand,” he said. “ _Tu me manques aussi_.”

“ _Mon Dieu_ , what have I told you about attempting to speak my language? Don’t do it. Your pronunciation is _horrible_. We’ll work on it when I come back, _mon pote_ ,” LeBeau lectured as he clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Look after everyone for me, alright? Only don’t attempt to cook anything more complicated than tea. I want my stove in working order and everyone alive when I return. Now, come, say goodbye to Colonel Hogan.” LeBeau’s blend of affection and tough love was enough to elicit a small smile.

Colonel Hogan was deep in discussion with Kinch when Newkirk strode up. Without even stopping, Hogan reached out and pulled Newkirk toward himself with a hand around the Corporal’s waist as he continued speaking with Kinch.

“If you need any support that our Underground contacts can’t handle, use the Strasbourg relay we discussed. In my absence, men should be used outside the wire only sparingly and if absolutely essential,” Hogan instructed Kinch. “Keep a pulse on any movements within our region by Burkhalter and Hochstetter, and be sure to give me an update on that ball bearing factory on the Bruckshaven Road—we’ll be busy with that when I get back.”

Finally, Hogan looked up at Newkirk. “And you, Peter… I want you to promise me you’ll keep everyone focused. If you think anything’s going wrong, you tell Kinch, all right? We count on your questions to help us think through problems.”

“Yes, Sir,” Newkirk said. He nodded solemnly while fighting the impulse to lean in for the consoling hug he desperately wanted.

“Good man,” Hogan said. Then he spoke so softly that only Newkirk could hear. “Louis and I will be back before you know it.” He patted his waist, then let go. LeBeau stood before Newkirk and stroked his cheek as Hogan, with a smile that lit the room, nodded his farewell to the men of Barracks 2. Then he grabbed LeBeau by the arm, and was off.

**XXX**

In his capacity as the-one-who-stands-beside-Hogan-at-rollcall, Newkirk was sure to be called upon by Captain Gruber to account for the Colonel’s absence. Whether Gruber would realize he was directing his questions to the one man in camp whose difficulty in uttering a single sentence was legendary was a separate matter.

Probably not, Kinch had opined. Gruber wasn’t all that observant. He just would ask Newkirk, Kinch had accurately predicted, and for a simple reason: “Proximity.” When he got through explaining the word’s meaning to half the men in barracks—though not, he was pleased to note, Newkirk—there was agreement, and there was a plan. With Hogan and LeBeau off in Paris, a cover story was essential, and the more confusing it was, the better.

Newkirk, with proper preparation, could always be counted upon to rise to the challenge of a dramatic role. Lying to Gruber’s face was one thing he could do for the war effort even if he wasn’t old enough to serve yet. He could memorize his lines and improvise skillfully, because lying, as O’Keefe had once pointed out, was his oxygen. He loved to spin a yarn.

So when Captain Gruber confronted him about the empty space next to his, Newkirk threw himself enthusiastically into the role of fabulist, riffing on the storyline he and the rest of the team had agreed to.

“Colonel Hogan? Oh no, he’ll be right along, Captain Gruber. Oh look, here he comes, Sir.” Olsen, dressed in Colonel Hogan’s uniform, shuffled his way from the barracks to stand somewhat close to Newkirk, though he stayed back six feet. His face was covered by a mask and he was making dramatic wheezing sounds.

“That is not Colonel Hogan,” Captain Gruber said skeptically. “He’s too thin and Colonel Hogan always moves quickly. And why is his face covered in that mask?”

“The mmmask? Oh, well, we’ve got a terrible new virus going round the barracks, Sir. He’s determined not to infect anyone, so he’s keeping a six-foot distance as well. Isn’t that j-j-j-just like the Colonel? So considerate.”

Gruber made a move toward “Hogan” to verify his identity, but at that moment the man in the Colonel’s uniform doubled over in a fit of coughing, wheezing and sneezing.

“I shouldn’t get any closer, Sir, if I were you. Not without a fffface mask,” Newkirk said importantly. “Vvvvery risky business, these new viruses.”

“Hmmph. Where is the Frenchman?”

“He’s in bed, Sir. Like I said, t-t-terrible virus. The word from BBC—not that we have a wwwireless or anything, Sir, because that would not be cricket—is that it’s a new strain. Novel, they’re calling it, which I suppose means it’s one for the books, eh? It’s deadlier than the flu.” Newkirk began coughing pathetically. He watched with satisfaction as Gruber took a large step back.

“Oh, n-n-not to worry, Sir,” Newkirk continued. “I haven’t been near the Colonel much. I’ve been mmmuch too busy taking care of LeBeau. Did I mention he’s dreadfully ill?” He continued to hack and wheeze until Gruber moved down the line.

Corporal Langenscheidt was counting the men while Gruber looked anxiously at the rag-tag assemblage. _What a revolting group of men_ , he thought as men up and down the line began coughing and hacking into their hands.

“ _Zehn, elf, zwolf_ … Carter, stop moving around!” Langenscheidt scolded.

“Fine, but hurry,” Carter said. “I’m not feeling great either.” He trotted and squirmed in place, clutching his stomach. “Listen, Langenscheidt, can’t I be excused?” Carter pleaded. “This virus, it gets you at both ends, if you know what I mean.”

Langenscheidt looked helplessly toward Gruber, then turned back to Carter. “Go,” he said. He watched Carter sprint toward the latrines.

Langenscheidt resumed his count. “Ten, eleven, twelve… wait, there should be fifteen! We’re missing three men!”

Gruber had moved on to inspecting the men of Barracks 3, so Newkirk took up the challenge.

“Of course we are,” he replied coolly. “Think about it.”

“Carter is excused… so there should be fourteen,” Langenscheidt said.

“Yes, he’s got the trots, and of course Garlotti went with him, so it’s thirteen,” Newkirk said. “You can’t send him off on his own in _that_ condition. It wouldn’t be humane.” Then he added, as if speaking to himself, “It doesn’t bode well for Garlotti, though, poor bugger. Not the way this thing is spreading.”

“But isn’t that Garlotti?” Langenscheidt pointed to a man three feet away from him, who in fact was Garlotti.

“Garlotti? That chap? You’d better get your eyes checked, mate. That’s Olsen,” Newkirk said. He turned to Garlotti/Olsen. “You don’t suppose he’s caught it, do you?”

Garlotti/Olsen leaned forward to scrutinize Langenscheidt’s eyes. “His eyes are very beady and kind of pink around the edges. I think that’s a symptom.” He clucked his tongue sympathetically, and around him several men began murmuring “pinkeye” and inspecting one another’s faces.

Langenscheidt's hand went up to his eyes and he looked alarmed, but he was a man of duty, so he pressed on. “If Garlotti went with Carter, we’re still missing a man, Newkirk,” he pleaded.

“Yes, yes, of course. LeBeau’s missing. Cor, if you’d clean your ears out, you’d know he’s in bed with a terrible virus. And stop touching your eyes, mate. That’s how the pinkeye spreads.” Newkirk halted and suddenly looked very, very said. “Blimey, I think the virus attacks the hearing, too. This could be bad for you, Corporal,” he said softly to Langenscheidt. “You should rest.”

“I’ll rest later,” Langenscheidt said gratefully. “So twelve is right?”

“Of course it’s right. _Alice in ord-nung_ , as you chaps say, although who this Alice is is quite beyond me. Does anyone here know Alice?” he asked the assembled men. A ruckus erupted as they began discussing the various Alices they had known.

Newkirk silenced them with a wave of his hand and turned back to Langenscheidt. “Y-y-y-you need to stop doubting yourself, mate. Tr-trust what you see in front of you!”

Langenscheidt frowned, and was shaking his head hopelessly when he noticed Gruber was returning for his report. He straightened up and tried to appear confident.

“Herr Kapitän, all present and accounted for,” he sang out in the lowest register he could muster, which was still a fairly high tenor.

The men responded with a chorus of hacks and sneezes.

By morning, the barracks was under quarantine, with only Langenscheidt and the medic, Sergeant Wilson, permitted to enter and exit. And it would stay that way for a whole week, at Wilson’s orders.

**XXX**

It was the middle of the night. Someone was shaking him awake.

“Peter, Peter, wake up,” the voice said. “Come on, buddy.”

He jolted awake. “Oh, Kinch. Blimey, you gave me a start. What’s going on? Why’d you wake me?”

“The Colonel and LeBeau. They’re gone,” Kinch said.

“I know they’re gone. They’re in Paris.”

“No. Really gone. The Gestapo executed them.”

He could hear himself screaming. And he could hear the voice again.

“Peter, Peter, come on, buddy, wake up.”

He bolted upright in bed, dripping with sweat, and felt a strong hand grip his arm.

“They’re dead! They’re both dead!” he shouted.

“No, no, no. Everyone’s OK. They’re fine. The Colonel and LeBeau are fine,” came the reply. 

In the darkness, Newkirk could just make out the figure. It was Kinch again, reaching up to his bunk. Carter was standing behind him.

“No, they’re dead. We have to go to them!” Newkirk was panting as he frantically climbed down from the bunk. Kinch steadied him as he dropped to the floor on legs so shaky that he had to sit down on Carter’s bunk.

“We have go to Paris, Kinch,” Newkirk said desperately. “We have to claim the bodies. We have to get even!” His voice cracked as the words came out.

“What’s going on?” came another voice from across the room. It was Garlotti. “Did something go wrong?” Olsen was awake too, and instantly he was on his feet to see what all the commotion was. Newkirk continued ranting, and pretty soon almost every man in the barracks was awake.

“Everyone go back to bed. It’s just a nightmare,” Kinch said. He sat beside Newkirk on Carter’s bunk as Carter sat on the other side. But Newkirk was still in the zone between sleep and wakefulness and he was squirming out of Kinch’s grip.

Olsen scratched his head, then knelt down in front of Newkirk. “They’re going to be OK, Peter,” he said. “This is Colonel Hogan we’re talking about.”

“Shhh, shhh,” Kinch repeated as he held Newkirk tighter. Olsen departed, then came back with a glass of water and held it to Newkirk’s lips.

“Everyone is OK. The Colonel and LeBeau are alive, Peter,” Kinch was repeating. Carter lit a candle and that seemed to be enough to illuminate Newkirk’s mind. He wasn’t ranting any longer, but he had questions for Kinch.

“They’re alive?” Newkirk’s voice was trembling.

“Yes, they’re fine,” Kinch said. “And we’ll talk to them again in the morning.”

“Are you sure? How d-d-d-do you know?”

“I’m sure. Trust me, Peter,” Kinch said. “Now shhhh. Just rest. You need to sleep.” He eased Newkirk’s head into Carter’s lap and Carter wrapped a protective arm around him.

“We should have g-gone with them. Someone has to llllook after them,” Newkirk said sleepily as he latched onto the arm. “I’m old enough to look after everyone,” he murmured as he began to drift to sleep. “Nora and Neddie and Georgie and Mum…”

His breath was still hitching as he fell into a restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There doesn't seem to be any explanation in "A Tiger Hunt in Paris" of how Hogan and LeBeau could be out of camp for a whole week. So I made one up.


	39. The Veil of Darkness

A chorus of coughs and sneezes greeted Langenscheidt when he entered the barracks at 7 AM to conduct a roll call and drop off the morning ration of coffee, bread and margarine. Every man did his best impression of sickness, and Carter groaned while clutching his stomach, which helped motivate Langenscheidt to wrap up his responsibilities quickly. The men were to be allowed out three times a day to visit the latrines, and that was that. Their weeklong confinement had begun.

“Whose brilliant idea was this?” Harper groused as he ambled around the room to get some exercise. A lanky six footer, Harper needed to stretch his long legs somewhere.

Kinch’s eyebrow shot up at that. “You have a better idea, Harper? We have to keep suspicion off Colonel Hogan and LeBeau for a solid week.” He sighed, then stood up and gathered the men closer.

“I know everyone’s feeling restless, but we’ll have to make the best of it,” Kinch said. “You can each have an hour to run around in the tunnels, two men at a time.”

That would help. Being cooped up on what appeared to be a mild September day was no one’s idea of fun, especially when they could hear the other prisoners out in the compound, laughing, tossing baseballs and shooting hoops.

Garlotti took charge of serving breakfast as the men started planning their underground activities. Bartoli and Belknap were going to dunk basketballs into an imaginary hoop. Mills and Harper would practice sprints. Carter and Newkirk made plans to kick around a soccer ball and promised Kinch that they would steer clear of chemicals and electronic equipment. Everyone was settling into place to consume what appeared to be roast acorn sludge and the driest brown bread available when the topic of conversation drifted to last night.

“Hey, Newkirk, are you doing OK this morning?” Olsen asked.

Newkirk looked baffled. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he answered.

“That was some nightmare you had last night, that’s why,” Goldman put in. “You woke everyone up.”

“Yeah, the Colonel and LeBeau are going to be OK. Don’t you worry, pal,” Carter said.

“Who said I w-w-was worried?” Newkirk snapped.

“You’re kidding, right?” Addison asked. “You were screaming your… ow! Garlotti!”

Garlotti smiled sweetly, but he was prepared to deliver another swift kick if Addison didn’t take the hint. “I call 5:45 in the tunnel! I think the Yankees are gonna clinch the pennant today,” he said. “We oughta be able to get the scores off the Armed Forces Network if we can get a good strong BBC signal.”

“I’m with Garlotti,” Olsen said. They already had their baseball mitts out on their bunks, ready for their exercise time; Olsen hadn’t been captain of his high school baseball team for nothing.

Newkirk retreated to his bunk to scowl in private. What had happened last night? He didn’t remember a thing.

**XXX**

Noon was the appointed time for Colonel Hogan to check in, and Kinch made sure Newkirk would be nearby so he could hear the Colonel’s voice. After last night, Kinch could see Hogan and LeBeau had failed to allay Newkirk’s fears about their absence. So he called Newkirk and Carter down to the tunnel and assigned them to check the storehouse of weapons for dirt build-up and proper lubrication and to clean any that needed it. That would keep them occupied for at least a couple of hours, which was good because Newkirk always focused when his hands were busy.

But before Hogan’s call came in, Kinch intercepted another call. It was Colonel Klink, calling from Paris. He hissed at Newkirk to come immediately to help.

“Newkirk, Klink's on the phone from Paris. I got him on here, bypassed his office. Talk to him as Gruber.”

Newkirk jumped on the line. “ _Captain Gruber here. Jawohl, Kommandant Klink. How are you enjoying your stay in Paris? You thought you saw Colonel Hogan? Impossible, Herr Kommandant. He is right here in the outside office. You want to talk with him? Yes, Herr Kommandant, I'll have him brought to the phone._ ”

Newkirk covered the phone and spoke frantically to Kinch.

“Get Colonel Hogan in Paris fast.”

“Suppose he's not in?” That was Carter. Where had his bleeding optimism gone?

“He ruddy well better be in,” Newkirk snapped.

Whether by miracle or plain luck, Kinch quickly made the connection. Newkirk continued listening on the line as Colonel Hogan’s voice came on.

“Okay, I get the picture, Kinch,” Hogan said. “Connect us.”

Kinch patched Hogan through to Klink.

“Hello, Colonel Hogan? Are you there? You are? Of course, where else would you be?” Klink queried. “He's there,” he said to Sergeant Schultz, covering the phone with his hand.

“That's very nice, Herr Kommandant,” Schultz replied.

“Well, I just want to keep tabs on all my prisoners,” Klink said conversationally.

“Your efficiency is really frightening, Kommandant. Having a good time in Paris?”

Kinch, Carter and Newkirk grinned at each other in relief. Colonel Hogan was doing just fine. But as Kinch disconnected the call, a dark look came over Newkirk’s face.

“Why wasn’t LeBeau there?” he asked.

“I’m sure the Colonel has him out on an errand of some sort, Pete,” Kinch said. “He didn’t sound worried at all.”

“And if the Colonel’s not worried, you shouldn’t worry,” Carter said softly. He took Newkirk by the wrist. “Come on, let’s finish up with the weapons and then we can play some soccer.” Carter led Newkirk away, slinging an arm over his shoulder like the confident older brother he was.

**XXX**

The screams started again a few hours after Newkirk fell asleep. This time they were for LeBeau.

Newkirk was sitting upright, panting, sweating, and lashing out at some invisible enemy. He was thrashing so wildly that Kinch was sure he was about to fall. With difficulty, Kinch and Harper—the tallest men in Barracks 2—hauled Newkirk down from his bunk. Harper took a hard smack in the nose for his troubles, but didn’t complain. He could see Newkirk was in the throes of something terrifying and couldn’t control his reactions.

“Don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him,” Newkirk was shouting. “Leave off! He’s my little mate!”

Harper and Carter tried to help Kinch wrestle Newkirk down onto Carter’s bunk, but he wouldn’t lie down. “Come on, buddy, wake up,” Kinch coaxed. Newkirk was still twisting and throwing punches.

Newkirk couldn’t feel his body; he was floating. He saw LeBeau in the clutches of a horrible black creature, suspended in the air, with lights going in circles on the ceiling. It looked like a huge spider, but it had octopus tendrils and it was squeezing LeBeau as he gasped for breath. And as it turned, its form changed too, and the spider became a swastika. And… and… and…

Suddenly Carter switched on a light, and Newkirk awakened. He was panting as he pressed into another body, and a pair of strong arms was holding him tight. A deep rumbling voice was telling him he was only dreaming. And at least six pairs of eyes were boring into him. He drew up his knees and buried his face into a broad chest. He inhaled and he knew that earthy smell was Kinch. His breaths started to even out. Kinch was safe, so he was safe.

“LeBeau! LeBeau! Where’s Louis?” Newkirk said hoarsely.

“He’s completely fine. He’s in Paris,” Kinch said. “He’s in a nice hotel, sleeping in a big soft bed and Colonel Hogan is in the room next to him. And you are right here with me.”

“I’m right here. I’m right here,” Newkirk echoed. “When are they coming back?”

“Soon. Just a few more days, OK?” Kinch said. He got Newkirk to lie down and nodded to Carter, who was standing behind him. Carter climbed over Newkirk and stretched out in the bunk next to him, on the side closest to the wall. He wrapped his arms around his friend as Kinch covered them both in a blanket. Kinch sat by as Newkirk drifted back to sleep.

“You OK, Carter?” Kinch asked the younger Sergeant softly.

Carter looked up and nodded. “Yes, I’ve got this. I shared a room with my brother for years. Sometimes he just needed to know someone was there.”

“Shout out if you need my help,” Kinch said. “Good night, Carter.”

**XXX**

Dawn broke and light flooded through the cracks in the barracks wall. Newkirk woke feeling strangely warm and cozy. Then he opened his eyes and felt a wave of confusion. This wasn’t his bunk. Behind him he heard a soft snore. He twisted his head around and realized it was Carter, with his arm on Newkirk’s side. Newkirk could feel himself blushing as he sat upright, pushing Carter’s arm off of him.

At that, Carter awoke. He tugged Newkirk by the back of his nightshirt. “Hey, you all right?”

“I’m perfectly fine!” Newkirk snapped. “How the hell did I end up down here?” Then in a lower voice, he added, “You didn’t try anything, did you?”

“Try what?” Carter said, completely baffled. Then recognition dawned. “Gee whiz, Peter, how could you even think that? You were having a nightmare, that’s all.”

“Was not,” Newkirk said.

“You were so,” Carter said. “Don’t you remember?”

“There’s nothing to remember,” Newkirk snarled.

“You were screaming LeBeau’s name,” Carter said. “But he’s OK. He’s fine. They’ll be back soon.”

“I know that,” Newkirk snapped. “Of course I know that.”

“Well, I’m just saying there’s nothing to be scared about,” Carter said.

“I’m not scared. I’m never scared,” Newkirk spat back. “I’m j-j-j-just concerned that they’ll get into trouble they can’t handle, that’s all. They shouldn’t have gone without mmmm, mmmmm, mmmm…”

“Without you? I get why you feel that way, Peter. It’s going to…”

Newkirk could feel his stomach drop. He didn’t want to be consoled; he wanted LeBeau and Colonel Hogan back, right now. And admitting that to himself was bad enough; he didn’t need Carter thinking it too. He had to set him straight.

“I didn’t ssssay me! Why don’t you let me fffffinish? Without mmmmore help. They need mmmmore help."

With that, he turned his back on Carter and wouldn’t speak to him for the rest of the day.

**XXX**

That evening, Sergeant Wilson stopped by, supposedly to check in on the sick men of Barracks 2. He had to stay long enough to concoct a story for Gruber, so he checked in with Kinch, who promptly pulled him into Colonel Hogan’s quarters for a private chat.

“We’ve got a little bit of a situation in here,” Kinch said. “Newkirk’s having horrible nightmares.”

“Anything out of the ordinary?” Wilson asked. Kinch looked puzzled, so Wilson elaborated: “A lot of these guys have nightmares, Kinch. You don’t get shot down over enemy territory, spend a week in the Dulag, and get interrogated by the Gestapo without a few bad memories piling up,” he said. “For Newkirk you can add on the stress of missions and his frequent trips to the cooler.”

“Well, right now, he seems to be mostly worried about Colonel Hogan and LeBeau. I knew it was going to be hard for him when they took off for a week, but he’s been coming unglued every night.”

“Unglued? Describe,” Wilson said.

“He falls asleep just fine, but he wakes up screaming and looking completely panicked. I try to calm him down, but it’s like he’s not there. He was thrashing around so much last night that Harper and I had to get him down from the bunk before he fell down. And when he finally comes to, he’s sweating and panting.”

“Does he remember anything?”

“Nope, that’s the crazy thing. He goes back to sleep and when he wakes up it’s like nothing happened. But then he gets ticked off because people are asking if he’s OK and he doesn’t remember anything being wrong.”

“And when this happens his heart’s racing?”

“It’s going a mile a minute. I’ve held him through a couple of these nightmares now and I can feel it thumping,” Kinch said.

“What you’re describing is not a nightmare, Kinch. That’s called a night terror. All you can do is wait it out and see if he wakes up,” Wilson said. “Or just let him get back to sleep.”

“But the other guys…”

“It’s hard to watch, I realize that. But all you can do once it starts is talk to him very calmly and get in between him and any danger, like you did when you got him down from the bunk. It might be better to have him sleep in a lower bunk for a while,” Wilson said.

“He’ll hate that,” Kinch said.

“I’ll talk to him,” Wilson said. “Do they happen at a predictable time?”

“It seems like they happen an hour or two after he gets to bed. Why?”

“One thing that might work is to wake him up about 15 minutes before the night terrors usually start. Sometimes that’s enough to short-circuit the process,” Wilson said. “I don’t have to tell you why this is happening.”

“Try me,” Kinch said. “It's something to do with the fact that he depends on Louis and Colonel Hogan the most.”

“He’s very attached to LeBeau,” Wilson said. “He’s still building his attachment to Colonel Hogan, and it’s fragile. To form attachments, very young children have to go through a phase where they learn that their mom and dad still exist even when they’re not visible. That’s what he’s experiencing with the sudden absence of the most important people in his life. He has to learn that they'll be back. We do that over and over with new attachments, and it usually gets easier. But he’s had a lot of uncertainty in his life, and he doesn't have a strong, stable foundation to build on. He's mature in so many ways, but in some respects, he's even younger than his age.”

Kinch blew out a deep breath. “Anything I can do?”

“You’re doing great, Kinch. He’s strongly attached to you too. What he needs is touch, eye contact, and a gentle tone of voice even when you’re ready to kill him.” He clapped his hands together. “Let’s get him in here,” he said.

Kinch went to pull Newkirk into the room. Newkirk arrived and managed to look both defiant and sheepish. He was acutely aware that he got more talkings-to than anyone in Barracks 2, and probably in the entire camp. He sat at the Colonel’s table with his head down and his chin propped up on a fist, bracing for the onslaught.

“You’re having some trouble sleeping through the night,” Wilson said.

Newkirk simply shrugged. “Everyone k-k-keeps telling mme that, but I don’t remember anything,” he said, then tried—and failed—to suppress a yawn. “I’m not a little kid. I don’t have _scary_ nightmares,” he said, sarcastically accentuating the adjective.

“Actually, you’re right. I don’t think you’re having nightmares. You’re having something else called a night terror,” Wilson said. “You can’t remember any details, right?”

“Blimey, isn’t that what I j-j-j-just said?” Newkirk snapped. Then immediately his face softened. “Sssssorry, Wilson. It’s not your fault. I feel so stupid, waking everyone up. And I hate being the only person who doesn’t know what’s happening to me.”

“I have a couple of ideas that might help,” Wilson said. “Could you sleep in here?”

“Alone?” Newkirk asked, looking stricken. He had been through a lot of hard things, but other than the cooler, he had never slept in a room by himself in his life. He’d gone from a crowded home to a boys’ dormitory to one barracks after another.

“No, Kinch or Carter could stay with you,” Wilson said, allowing a small smile to lift up the corners of his mouth. “And they’ll wake you up about 15 minutes before the night terrors usually happen, OK? That might prevent them from occurring again. And there’s one other thing.” He got up and exited the room, then returned with a small red wool bundle.

“Here,” he said. “Take this to bed with you tonight.”

It was LeBeau’s pullover, raggedy and worn. Newkirk took it from Wilson, and looked angry for a moment, until his eyes shifted from Kinch to Wilson and then gazed back down at the pullover. He held it to his face and inhaled cinnamon and thyme. That was his little mate, right there. When he pulled it away, he nodded and smiled shyly. Yes, this would help.


	40. Out of the Night

It helped. Newkirk continued to fret and worry by day over the departure of the two people he depended on most, but two nights of close watching by Carter and Kinch tamed his night terrors. In their place came a restless sleep punctuated by vivid bursts of a dream, or more accurately, a hazy recollection embroidered by the passage of time.

_He was sprawled on the pavement. He had performed this tumble on purpose many times for years and years, but sometimes it hurt more than others. The pavement here was pebbly and rough, and his bare knees were scraped and bleeding._

_He always cried; that was part of the show. Sometimes it was just easier, like now. The more tears, the better; the trick only worked if the mark made him get up. He would wobble a little, steady himself with his hands, bump into the mark, locate what he needed, then grab it and run._

_But instead of hauling him to his feet as a mark usually did, this one crouched beside him, asking if he was alright. A strong hand rested on his little shoulder. The man, who smelled clean and fresh, like rain in grassy park, helped him stand. In front of him, at chest level, was a soldier’s cap on top of a dark head of hair, and the man was inspecting his knees, probing gently. Then a pair of kind brown eyes turned to look up at him, and the man gazed at him with concern._

He woke with a start. “Colonel Hogan?” he called into the dark.

Carter dropped down from the bunk above him. “The Colonel’s still in Paris, buddy. Remember? We talked with him today. You did your Himmler impression. That was good, boy.” He laughed and took a seat on the bunk next to Newkirk. “You need anything?”

“Is he alright?” Newkirk asked. He was clutching LeBeau’s pullover, and Carter could see that the mere presence of something belonging to LeBeau seemed to have calmed him. His fears had now shifted entirely to Colonel Hogan. He bent his knee and absently rubbed it.

“He’s fine,” Carter said in his most reassuring tone. “So is Louis, and they’ll be back tomorrow. Can I get you anything? Water, maybe?”

“No,” Newkirk said sullenly.

Carter rested a hand on Newkirk’s stomach. “Well, try to get back to sleep, OK? I’ll sit here with you.”

“You don’t have to,” Newkirk said, avoiding Carter’s eyes.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to,” Carter said. “Try to sleep. Close your eyes.”

Newkirk tried, but his eyes sprang open. “How many hours is the drive, nine? Ten?”

“It’s long. With roadblocks, I’d say ten hours at a minimum to go 400 miles,” Carter replied.

“And Gestapo and SS everywhere,” Newkirk fretted. “They shouldn’t have gone. They should have let the Paris cell handle it.”

“You know how Colonel Hogan feels about Tiger,” Carter said. “And LeBeau.”

“I love Tiger too, Carter, but C-C-Colonel Hogan can’t be everywhere,” he said. “He can’t pr-protect everyone. It’s too dangerous to try. He b-b-b-belongs here.”

“He’ll be back, you’ll see,” Carter said. He looked around the room, which was lit only by a stream of moonlight coming through the cracks in a shuttered window. “Hey,” he suddenly said.

Carter got up and picked Colonel Hogan’s crush cap from its place on his small dresser. He sat back down beside Newkirk and pressed it into his hands.

“Here. Hold this. I think the Colonel would want you to take care of it for him,” he said.

Newkirk let go of LeBeau’s pullover and took the cap in his hands. He ran his fingers over the eagle badge, then over the leather visor and strap, and over the woven frame. Finally he pressed the cover to his cheek, breathed deeply, took hold of LeBeau’s pullover once again and let his eyes drift shut. He held his thumb against the corner of his mouth and rubbed gently as he fell asleep.

_Strangers in the posh parts of London often stared at grubby, ragged little boys, but this one wasn’t looking through him with disgust. He was actually seeing him._

_“Come with me and I’ll tape it up. I work right over there,” the man said with a wave of his hand toward a vast, elegant building._

_He hesitated, then slipped his small hand into the man’s large one. Then suddenly, the man swung him up in his arms, and he was looking into the man’s eyes, smiling, tipping his head, and clutching the man’s lapels. He wanted to go with this man, who was smiling back at him now, because even if he used iodine to clean up his cut, he felt brave and safe now, way up here, in a strong pair of arms._

_At least, he did feel brave and safe, until the familiar image of a stubbly, sour man shaking his head in disapproval flooded his mind, crowding out every other sight or thought and replacing it with fear and the feel and smell of a cigarette burn._

Newkirk startled awake again. “Stop!” he called out. “It hurts!”

Carter’s head appeared over the side of the bunk. “Are you OK, buddy?”

“Uh, yeah,” Newkirk replied.

“Want me to come down there?”

Newkirk thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “J-just for a bit.”

Yes wasn’t the answer he expected, but Carter was glad to oblige. He swung down silently. Newkirk was already sitting up on the bunk, and Carter sat beside him, waiting for a cue.

“I k-keep dr-dreaming about something what happened wh-when I was little,” Newkirk finally said. 

“A bad dream?” Carter asked.

“No, mostly a good dream about someone who wanted to help me. B-but I had to run away before he could do anything. I, I think some of it really happened. He was, he was, he was an American.” He yawned and tipped his head onto Carter’s shoulder. “I really miss Louis and Colonel Hogan,” he said through another big yawn.

Carter had an arm over his shoulder, and he snaked it down to his waist and tightened the grip. “Me too. It’s not the same when they’re gone. But I promise you, they really are OK.”

Newkirk yawned again. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said softly. He could feel a haze enveloping him, and Carter felt him growing heavy. When he shifted under the weight, Newkirk woke again.

“I’d better lie down,” Newkirk said. “Go back to bed, Andrew.”

“Sure thing, buddy,” Carter said. He stood and tucked the pullover under one of Newkirk’s arms and the crush cap under the other. “Pleasant dreams.” Newkirk hadn’t heard. He was already gone.

_He inhaled the mark, breathed in his clean rain scent, tugged on his lapels, claimed his souvenirs, and whispered, “P-put me down. You have to let me go.” As his feet touched the ground, he squeezed the man’s hand, then trundled off, afraid to look back. Because if kindness wasn’t real for at least that one moment, he knew his heart would break. In his pocket, he rubbed his thumb over two small, shiny metal bars. In his jacket, he had the man’s wallet._

_He didn’t get far before he turned on his heel, ran back, and handed the man his wallet. If he hadn’t felt so ashamed for taking it in the first place, he might have climbed back into his arms then and there, kissed his cheek, and held on tight. Because he might have been a very bad boy, but he knew goodness when he saw it._

A few minutes later, it was Carter’s turn to toss and turn restlessly. He could hear Newkirk murmuring in the bunk below. “Why didn’t I go with him? I ought to have done … I ought… I ought...” For a long while, Carter lay awake thinking it would have been a whole lot easier on everyone if they could have taken Newkirk to Paris.

**XXX**

It was after 10 o’clock at night when the staff car finally rolled into the camp. Kinch, Carter, Newkirk and Olsen were at the table playing poker by candlelight while all around them men slept. Newkirk was too jumpy to concentrate. It wasn’t like him to lose or fold more hands than he won.

Everyone froze when they heard wheels come to a halt outside the Kommandantur, and Carter quickly snuffed the candle. Newkirk cracked open the shutters on the window that was at the foot of his bed. He saw two figures in the shadows, poised to dash across the compound when the searchlights shifted.

“They’re back,” he said, his voice jumping an octave from sheer nerves. The door opened narrowly and LeBeau slid in. Then a moment later, Hogan followed. Hogan’s finger went to his lips—an outburst of noise could blow the whole game now. He went into his office to change into his pajamas while LeBeau found his skivvies.

Newkirk stood immobilized by the window, breathing shallowly as he watched them. A moment later, Hogan and LeBeau rejoined Kinch, Carter and Olsen at the table and stood there stretching while everyone chattered.

“She’s fine,” Hogan was saying. “She’ll be back with the Hammelburg cell within the week. It was quite an escapade. Let me tell you about Klink’s staff car.”

As Hogan entertained his men, LeBeau looked up to Newkirk’s bunk and saw it was empty. He elbowed Carter. “Where’s Pierre?” he asked.

At that, Hogan looked startled. “Don’t tell me he’s in the cooler,” he said.

“No, he’s right… where did he go?” Kinch started. “Oh, there he is,” he said. “Pete, come on over.” He waved his hand.

Newkirk was walking tentatively toward the table when LeBeau met him halfway there, arms outstretched.

“Pierre, mon frérot, it’s good to see you,” LeBeau said. But Newkirk was hanging back. LeBeau beckoned with his hand. “Come, sit with us.”

It was no good. Newkirk was stuck. LeBeau inched closer.

“Pierre?” he said. He laid a hand on Newkirk’s arm and heard him gasp. He watched as his eyes grew larger.

“Pierre, come here,” he repeated. LeBeau moved in closer and wrapped an arm around his friend. He clutched him close, feeling his belly heaving as he breathed. Then Newkirk’s head dropped onto his shoulder.

“It’s you,” Newkirk said, his hand moving over LeBeau’s shoulder and arm as if to confirm he was flesh and blood and not an apparition. _This is real_ , he thought. _He came back_.

“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be, you idiot?” LeBeau replied. “Sit.”

Newkirk slid in at the table in between LeBeau and Colonel Hogan, who draped his arm over the Corporal’s shoulder as soon as he sat down. He listened silently as they recounted their adventure. Gradually, as they talked, relief gave way to belief. They were back. They both came back. Everything was as it should be. He wasn’t scared. But God, he was weary.

He laid his head on his crossed arms as they talked and felt a hand rubbing circles on his back. Then another hand stroked his hair.  
  
“Peter? Peter?” a voice said. “Guys, I think he’s down for the count. Better get him on his bunk.”

“Can he sleep on your spare bunk tonight, Sir?” asked a deep rumbling voice.

“Good idea, Kinch.”

Before sleep could fully claim him, he was on his feet again, two pairs of strong arms supporting him. He smelled earth and rain. Then they pushed him down, down, down and he slid into the night.


	41. The Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paragraphs 3-5 were revised on 6 Sept 2020

As Hogan prepared to climb into his bunk that night, he noticed a gleam on the rack below his. It was his cover, with its eagle badge, clenched in Newkirk’s hand. Tucked under Newkirk’s arm as he slept soundly was LeBeau’s pullover. Hogan laughed. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He snugged the blanket up over his young charge’s shoulders and climbed into bed.

Newkirk slept—and for the first time in a week, it was a deep, refreshing sleep, undisturbed by dreams. From his perch up above, Hogan could hear Newkirk sighing softly, and he sighed too, relieved to be reunited with his team.

In the morning, Newkirk was on his feet for rollcall, but at the table during breakfast he rested his head on his arms for just a moment and was gone again. Kinch had him up and was steering him toward the Colonel’s quarters as LeBeau trailed beside them, wiping the margarine from his _fr_ _érot_ ’s ear. Newkirk objected strenuously to all the attention. Yes, he did want to sleep, but he wanted to do it on _his_ bunk, thank you, and he wriggled out of Kinch's hold. LeBeau, of course, understood why instinctively. He nudged Kinch back toward Newkirk's bunk, and then Kinch got it too. He gave Newkirk a boost up to his bunk and watched him for the 30 seconds it took for him to collapse back to sleep.

"Wouldn't he rest better in my quarters?" Hogan asked once Newkirk had drifted off. LeBeau just put a finger to his lips and shook his head with his lower lip jutting out and waved his hand away. The message was plain: Quiet; he had this under control; not to worry.

Later, when Newkirk was snoring again, Kinch explained to Colonel Hogan what that was all about. During the daytime, Newkirk’s own bunk was the best place to keep LeBeau and Hogan in sight as much as possible. "He'll sleep better knowing where both of you are," Kinch said. "He'll relax eventually, but he's still on guard in case you leave again."

Newkirk could sleep through anything, and he did, all day long, right there amid the hubbub of barracks life. Belly down, arms tucked under his chest, his snore as soft as the skin on his cheeks, he slept. He went on sleeping through repeated clatterings of the bunkbed entrance; a loud search by LeBeau for his pullover; multiple well-intentioned hushings; a giddy jitterbug dance-off by Carter, Goldman, Bartoli, and Foster; the sudden appearance of a rat and his summary execution with the business end of LeBeau’s fire iron; a scuffle between Harper and Olsen over the St. Louis Cardinals’ prospects against the New York Yankees; a dissertation by Garlotti on whether wearing glasses off the field should disqualify Eddie Rommel as a Major League umpire; the departure and return of a dozen men for meals and recreation time; and three equally noisy entrances and exits by Schultz. All before 4 PM.

It was late afternoon before Newkirk finally surfaced from an eight-hour nap and began showing signs of life. He sat up groggily and stretched. Most of the men were out in the compound, enjoying the late September sunshine now that the quarantine in Barracks 2 had been lifted. Hogan and LeBeau were at the table, pretending to be in recovery from their imaginary ailments and genuinely feeling sore and weary from the ordeal of riding on the roof of a car for eleven hours.

“Come down and I’ll make you some tea, _mon pote_ ,” LeBeau said warmly.

Normally that offer would trigger an instant harangue on the shortcomings of French tea-brewing techniques, but Newkirk’s heart wasn’t in it. He slipped down from his bunk and sat at the table opposite Colonel Hogan while LeBeau busied himself with tea leaves, a pot and a kettle. LeBeau also managed to assemble a cheese sandwich for his _petit frangin_ , who had only consumed two bites of brown bread before passing out at breakfast. Newkirk nibbled away, then yawned and stretched again, and finally sat up straight and lit a cigarette. Hogan looked up from the book he was reading and smiled; LeBeau rested a hand on Newkirk’s shoulder as he put down a second steaming cup of tea, then tapped the breast pocket where Newkirk kept his pack of cards.

“Show me a trick,” LeBeau said. “I’ve missed being entertained by you.”

Newkirk smiled and complied as Colonel Hogan looked on. All three men looked worse for wear—frayed around the edges and in desperate need of showers, sleep, and—in two out of three cases—a good, close shave. Even so, they were the picture of contentment as they sat together.

“For this trick, I’m only going to use the four aces…” Newkirk said as he displayed the cards one by one. “The Ace of Hearts, the Ace of Diamonds, the Ace of Clubs, the Ace of Spades. I will try to make the aces turn face up by twisting the cards. Now, the most difficult card to turn face up is the Ace of Spades...”

He relaxed into his routine, smiling, clever, quick, and utterly charming.

An hour and a half later, as the rest of the men filed back into the barracks, LeBeau and Hogan were stuffing Newkirk into his nightshirt and helping him stretch out on Carter’s bunk. He was down for the night, and it wasn’t even 6 PM.

“What did you do to him while we were gone, make him run a marathon every day?” Hogan asked Kinch with a wry grin on his face.

“Something like that,” Kinch replied with a smile. “He’s just relieved you and LeBeau are back, Colonel Hogan.”

“How much longer is he going to sleep?” Hogan inquired.

Kinch leaned down and laid a hand on Newkirk’s chest to feel him breathing. “Not sure. He’s got a lot of catching up to do, Sir. He spent half his nights running from something and the other half running toward you two. And we spent the days reminding him that whatever was eating him, he wasn’t in it alone, didn’t we, Carter?”

“We spent the nights doing that, too,” Carter added. “He had some tough nights, boy. I think he felt discarded, Sir.”

Hogan felt a twinge of guilt, but he covered it well. “Well, we can’t have that,” he said firmly, elbowing Kinch just slightly as he bent down to tuck a blanket around his Corporal. He straightened up and looked down. “We are warriors and members of a team, and we never leave a man behind,” he said. 

XXX

For the next two weeks, Newkirk shadowed Colonel Hogan and LeBeau everywhere they went, whether it was into the tunnels, outside for recreation, to the latrine or to the shower. He gradually put a little more space between himself and them, but his need to keep them in sight was unmistakable.

But there was one place he still couldn’t go with them, and that was out on a mission. Hogan was short of men and would have given anything to use him; the epidemic that Kinch and company had faked during Hogan and LeBeau’s absence quickly became all too real as the autumn weather blew in. During a monthly check-in with General Butler, Hogan broached his idea for supplementing their resources.

The topic came up on the eve of what promised to be a challenging mission. A Captain Warren, a prisoner who should have been on his way back to England courtesy of Papa Bear’s operation, had been captured and brought to Stalag 13. It was the first escape that had gone wrong in six months, and Hogan suspected interference. “Somebody's selling us out,” he had told his team. “There's only one way to be sure, and that's travel the escape route ourselves.”

Hogan knew who he wanted on the excursion—LeBeau and Newkirk, and not just because he was reluctant to leave Newkirk again. The mission required quick thinking and the ability to stay in character while playing the part of an escaped prisoner. It was a role perfectly suited to Newkirk, though it was also one that Olsen could have pulled off if he hadn’t been down with a sore throat and a fever of 103°. Unfortunately, it was a role that Carter could never perform unless the character happened to be a German.

So Hogan put his case to General Butler. “It’s the middle of October, Jaguar, and my best men are dropping like flies from the flu. Rupert Bear has only ten weeks to go before he’s legal. I need him for this mission,” Hogan pleaded.

“Negative, Papa Bear. Panther will have your head on a plate and mine on a pike,” Butler said. “I can’t authorize it.”

Hogan signed off in frustration, and considered all his options. Garlotti had a lot of the right attributes, but his German was too shaky to enable him to track conversations going on around him. Goldman had the language skills, but this was a mission that was being conducted in plain sight of many civilians, and he wouldn’t risk the man’s capture, having witnessed more than once the harsh punishment that the Gestapo and SS reserved for Jewish escapees. Neither Addison nor Harper had the German or the right temperament, and Foster had the German, but not the ability to play a sustained role. He thought again about Carter, but decided that even if he was right for the mission—which he wasn’t--Newkirk would come unglued without him. So in the end he opted to go with only LeBeau.

“We leave in the morning, and we’ll be out of camp a day or even longer,” Hogan explained to his team as they gathered in the tunnel. He could see Newkirk tightening his arms around himself, and if he squeezed his eyes a little tighter he was pretty sure he could see smoke coming out of his ears.

“How mmmmmuch l-longer?” Newkirk asked.

“One night, maybe two,” Hogan said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Petit frangin” is another way of saying “little brother.”  
> Newkirk is performing a card trick called Twisting the Aces, which probably hadn’t been invented yet.  
> This chapter includes portions of the episode “The Flame Grows Higher” from Season 1.  
> And Hogan's "warriors" comment is from the Soldier's Creed, which didn't exist in that form in 1943, so sue me.


	42. Left Behind Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an unusually short chapter but I might not have a chance to post for a couple days because I got a JOB!!!! So I thought I'd get this out.

The meeting broke up and Hogan pulled Newkirk and LeBeau aside.

"Peter, two more months and everything will be different," he began softly.

"Yes, I know. My mmmmagic transformation to an adult c-c-c-capable of mmaking decisions will occur at 12:01 on the mmmorning on December 22, 1943. Hey presto, P-P-P-P-Peter's not a little boy anymore," Newkirk said, rolling his eyes, but trying to keep his tone light. "I can't wait, but I expect I'll have to do."

Hogan heard the words, but he also heard the undertone of anxiety. "We'll take plenty of precautions. We'll be alright out there," he said.

"Of course you wwwwill," Newkirk replied earnestly, not believing a word of it. "But I c-c-could help with this. I could be useful. I j-j-j-just wwwwant to be useful, Sir. I know the escape routes. I know our history."

LeBeau laid a hand on his arm, but Newkirk shook it off. A soothing touch wasn't helping him play the part of confident soldier one bit. LeBeau looked away, hurt. He was only trying to help.

"Peter, I know how valuable you would be for this mission. That was never in question. I presented the case to London, but they nixed it. They're not willing to take the risk of putting a minor in harm's way on a high-profile mission," Hogan said. “I’m sorry, but that’s the final answer.”

"Can't you talk to them again, Sir? They should listen to you! You're a full Colonel, and you know better than anyone who's needed for this mission! I want to help, Sir. Please ask them again."

"I went to the top, Peter. I spoke to General Butler personally," Hogan said firmly.

"You could, you could, you could take me anyway," Newkirk argued. "London doesn't have to know. Having me along is the b-b-best decision. You said so yourself, Sir."

"Peter… there's a chain of command for a reason. I made my case and I was overruled. I get to improvise on some things, but not this."

"Then why does it have to b-b-be you two? C-can't anyone else go?" Newkirk pleaded. "Why do you always have to take the biggest risks, Sir?" He stood with his arms hugging himself tightly. LeBeau moved closer, and this time Newkirk let him.

Hogan shook his head. "You know the answer to that, Peter. This is my command. I can't send my men out on the most dangerous mission we've undertaken all year. Our operation is exposed; we have to find who betrayed us. There are some things you can't delegate, and this is one of them. I have to lead."

"Then why does LeBeau have to go too? That's not fair. That's not fair." He grabbed Louis by the shoulder. Newkirk's effort to offer the most mature arguments he could muster was rapidly deteriorating as he became more and more anxious. The fear of losing Hogan or LeBeau or both was overwhelming.

"For the same reason I wanted you there," Hogan said. "He knows our escape routes. He knows the history—who we’ve sent through and what’s worked and what hasn’t. He understands German perfectly and speaks it well enough. And he can stay in character and improvise when I give the signal."

"I'd be perfect for this, j-j-just like Louis is," Newkirk said, trying to restore some calm to his voice.

"Yes. No doubt," Hogan said. "But I cannot include you this time,” he added firmly.

"Let the underground ffffix it for a change, then!" Newkirk's voice had climbed an octave. "W-w-w-w-w…” He stopped, unable to words out and tried using more air. “Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh, wh-wh-wh-why, why, why do you have to d-d-do everything? Let them investigate! Let th-th-th-th-th-th…" He bit his lip, then raised his thumb to the corner of his mouth and started rubbing. He was losing control and he knew it as he stammered harder and harder. Stammering was always awful but getting stuck on that TH- sound was absolutely the worst. He wasn't doing anything to convince Hogan of his fitness for this or any other mission. He was too emotional.

Hogan stepped forward, laid his hand on Newkirk’s shoulder, and then gently pressed his arm down to dislodge his thumb from the corner of his mouth. "You're worried that we might get hurt while we're doing our job, Peter. We all are, but there are lot of people in our unit and in the underground whose job is to protect each other. We're experienced and we’re well trained for this. We plan to come home safe as soon as this job is done. We expect it. But you know I can't promise. It's a war, Peter. You’re a soldier and you know the risks we all take. All I can tell you is that Kinch and Carter will be here for you and that LeBeau and I have the training and the determination to complete the mission and come back to you."

Hogan didn’t like this situation either. He wanted to keep Peter close by, to put him to work so he felt useful, and to show him that he was part of a team that would never abandon him. And he wanted to make him believe everything would be all right. His mind flashed to an image of himself as a little boy of seven or eight, sitting on a kitchen counter as his mother kissed his scraped knee and said “all better.” He wished life was that easy.

"I hate this," Newkirk said in resignation. He breathed in deeply through his nose and the smell of fresh rain and after shave filled his senses. He knew he could calm down if he concentrated, so he just breathed.

"Yes, this is a bad part," Hogan said. "Even for a soldier like you, this part is upsetting. It's OK to be upset, Peter. It's normal to feel that way."

"I'm not upset," Newkirk murmured. "I just hate being left behind when I know I could be useful." He straightened his back, then looked coolly at Colonel Hogan. Yes, he realized, they could both see right through him. They knew he was just plain scared to let them out of his sight. But this wasn't the moment to talk or cry or need a hug. He'd done his best to talk Hogan out of it; this was the moment for Peter Newkirk to accept his CO's explanation and be a man. They had a mission to perform.

"Alright," he said. "What can I do to help?"


	43. Road Trip

Carter and Kinch slipped out late that night to set a fire in the nearby hills, creating the diversion Hogan had dreamed up in order to get himself and LeBeau out of camp the next day. In the morning, he showed up in the Kommandant’s office before roll call, dramatically sniffing the air and pointing Klink to the forest fire that was burning in the distance.

Klink, predictably, fell hook, line and sinker for Hogan’s yarn about the fire’s imminent threat to Stalag 13 and the utterly fortuitous coincidence that LeBeau was a seasoned firefighter. As he departed the Kommandantur grinning like a cat, Hogan made a mental note to sell that man a bridge after the war.

Immediately after morning rollcall broke up, Klink allowed them to leave camp and investigate the blaze under Schultz’s eagle eyes. Once outside the camp, it took a half-hour to reach their destination and less than no time after that for Hogan and LeBeau to give Schultz the slip and begin their inquiries. Schultz was left at the site of the blaze with a bagged lunch Hogan had demanded from Klink. Hogan was confident Schultz wouldn’t be going anywhere, because he would require time to sit and think of an explanation of how he had lost his prisoners. The lunch was an insurance policy to keep him busy and prevent him from wandering too far.

LeBeau and Hogan sped off toward their first stop, a small inn called the Kaiserhof that served as the jumping off point for escapees. It was half an hour in the opposite direction by stolen truck.

**XXX**

Inside Barracks 2, Newkirk and Carter tried to play cards and they tried to play checkers, but nothing was working. They kept popping their heads into the bunkbed entrance to see if Kinch had heard anything.

Finally, Kinch got tired of the inquiries and came up the ladder. “Baker’s covering for me for a couple hours. You guys have to calm down. It’s only 10 o’clock. They’ve barely been gone 45 minutes.”

“I hate it when they’re gone and we’re stuck here,” Carter said.

“Took the w-words right out of mmmmy mmmmouth,” Newkirk added in a low grumble.

At the table, a new guy named O’Brien snickered. “What?” Newkirk snapped. He was in no mood for anyone joking about this mission.

“The way you said that was kind of funny. Mmmmmy mmmmouth,” O’Brien said with a shrug.

“Jesus Christ,” Olsen said under his breath. Despite his sore throat and fever, he dragged himself out of his sickbed and tugged the new man by the arm. “Come ‘ere, Tom,” he said. “I’ve got something to explain to you.”

“You d-d-don’t have to do anything of the sort,” Newkirk exploded at Olsen and O’Brien, who was now on his feet and looking completely baffled as to what he had started. “Look ‘ere, T-T-T-T-Tommy or whatever your bleeding name is. I st-st-st-stammer, alright? Get used to it. And while you’re at it, qu-qu-quit picking your nose.” He gave him a two-handed shove, and O’Brien went stumbling backwards toward the stove. Olsen caught him before things could get worse.

Kinch had Newkirk around the shoulders in a flash. “No fighting,” he said firmly. “The last thing we need to do is stir up trouble while the Colonel is out of camp.” He nodded at Olsen, who was looking flushed as he grasped O’Brien by the arm.

“I know I don’t have to talk to him, Newkirk, but I want to, OK?” Olsen told Newkirk. “I’m going to tell him what’s what. So back down. He’s new and he can’t be expected to understand everything.”

“Ffffffine,” Newkirk spat. Then more quietly, he added, “ffffine.” Kinch’s arms slipped off Newkirk’s shoulders as he gave up the fight. As Olsen hauled O’Brien to Colonel Hogan’s office for a private lecture, Newkirk crossed his arms and huffed out a breath. Kinch and Carter stood by him, and eventually Carter laid a hand on Newkirk’s forearm.

“You hate it when they’re gone, too. I know,” Carter said quietly.

Outside, they heard a whistle blow, signaling their morning exercise period. Kinch hooked Newkirk’s soccer ball out from under the bunk with his foot and gave it a little kick. “Come on, Pete, we all need to blow off some steam. Let’s get Foster and Garlotti and a few other guys and play keep away. Baker’s on the radio”

“Can you show me how you trap the ball again?” Carter was asking as he followed on Newkirk’s heels out the door.

“I’ve shown you ten times already,” Newkirk snarked. “You’re bloody hopeless.” But there was no bite in his words—just playful banter. A little running around, especially with a football, always helped lift Newkirk’s spirits.

They were barely ten minutes into a game of black-hole keep away when Bartoli came trotting toward them.

“Oh, look, another lad,” Newkirk said to his companions, who now included Blake from Barrack 4 as well as Kinch, Carter, Garlotti and Foster. “If we g-get one mmmore, we could do a four-on-four passing mmmatch instead of this ruddy drill,” he said. Keep away was fun, but a scoring match was always better in his book.

Kinch had his hands on his hips and was catching his breath from the first burst of intense play. “I don’t think he’s here for football, Newkirk,” he said. Bartoli was heading straight toward him.

**XXX**

“Compromised,” Bartoli was telling Kinch as he relayed a message from Baker. Agent Sparrow had picked up a tip that Margit and Eva, two young barmaids at the Kaiserhof Inn who were the first envoys on the escape route, had turned. Newkirk was at Kinch’s elbow as Bartoli spilled the few details he had. This much was clear: Papa Bear was in the sights of two traitors, who had instructions to kill if necessary. There was now a much higher chance that he and LeBeau would not make it back.

Kinch looked down at Newkirk expecting to see panic, but instead he saw determination.

Bartoli, playing his part with care, accepted a cigarette and a light from Kinch and walked off nonchalantly. In a second, Newkirk was down on the ground, grabbing his calf. “Oh, bloody hell, I’ve an awful cramp,” he moaned loud enough for the guards to hear.

“Sorry, guys, looks like our game’s over,” Kinch said as he gathered Newkirk up off the ground. “Come on, Pete, get up.” Then his voice dropped several registers. “Nice work, Pete,” he whispered. “Carter, give me a hand.”

As Carter and Kinch hauled Newkirk to his feet, Newkirk slung an arm over each man’s shoulder and continued complaining. “Oh blimey, I’ve got the dead leg. The dead leg…”

“That’s what we call a charley horse, Newkirk. Gosh, they sure can hurt,” Carter said in all earnestness. “You know it’d be a lot better to work it out right here. I can show you a couple of stretches.”

“Carter? Shut up,” Kinch and Newkirk said in unison. A light bulb went off over Carter’s head as he and Kinch stumped back to the barracks with Newkirk limping along between them.

**XXX**

Once inside the barracks, Kinch and Newkirk were all business. They were about to drop into the tunnel to receive Sparrow’s transmission when Newkirk suddenly shifted direction. He grabbed his blanket off his bunk and brought it to Olsen, who was back in his sickbed, still fighting a sore throat and fever.

“Thanks, mate,” Newkirk said as he spread the blanket over Olsen.

“Any time, buddy. Game over so fast?”

“Yeah. Something c-came in,” Newkirk replied. “Try to get some kip. You’ll feel better,” he said, patting Olsen on the shoulder. Then he hustled down the ladder.

“If we hurry, we can intervene before Papa Bear is taken out,” Sparrow was saying over the radio as Newkirk arrived in the communications hut. “But it needs to be a lag. Who can you spare? I can be on the Hammelburg Road to meet them in…” he paused, “eight minutes.”

Kinch had his head in his hand. Sparrow was right. This was not the moment for an Underground agent to appear on the escape route—not when it was unclear who was and wasn’t loyal. An escaped prisoner would blend into the story LeBeau and Hogan were telling as they traveled the escape route in their military uniforms. But who did Kinch have to send? He couldn’t go, and Baker couldn’t either. If it was nighttime, it would be another story, but a black man appearing on a German road in broad daylight would be spotted in an instant. Hogan had already ruled out Carter for this mission, and Kinch knew he wouldn’t be happy to see him. He needed someone who knew the terrain, who could speak German like a native, who could think on his feet. Maybe Mills. No. Maybe… no.”

“Send me,” Newkirk said.

Kinch was momentarily startled. There was something tough and confident in Newkirk’s voice, something he hadn’t heard in a while.

“Peter, I can’t…”

“I’m the right man for the mmmission. The Colonel himself said so. I know the routes. I know our history. I won’t hesitate to use my weapon if I have to. And if the Colonel sees me there, he’ll know the game j-j-just changed.” He went into their small-arms room and came out with a handgun.

“We both know the rules, Newkirk,” Kinch was saying as the Corporal disappeared and returned. “You’re grounded, buddy. I can’t send you. The Colonel left strict orders.”

“If we start obeying officers, we're going to lose this bleeding war,” Newkirk said, leaving no room for discussion. “And you don’t have to _send_ me, because I’m going anyway. Sparrow,” he said into the microphone, “Rupert in seven and one-half minutes.”

Kinch thought for a moment. Newkirk was right. Everything had changed the minute it became clear that Hogan and LeBeau were in imminent danger from their very own contacts. Losing Papa Bear was unthinkable; too much depended on his safe return. Without him, their mission would stand little chance of surviving. Newkirk was nine weeks from his eighteenth birthday, and he was a stealthy and well trained soldier. Screw London; they were wrong about Newkirk. They had been for a long time, but the Unsung Heroes no longer had the luxury of playing by counterproductive rules.

He sighed, and then activated the microphone. “Sparrow, Rupert is on his way. Over.” Then he shut of the radio and said, “Be careful out there, Peter. And I hope Colonel Hogan doesn’t have my head for this. Or your head.”

“Better my head than his,” Newkirk said solemnly as he clicked his weapon.


	44. To the Rescue

“I don’t see their lorry,” Newkirk said quietly from his hiding spot in the back seat as Sparrow drove slowly past the Kaiserhof. This was his second swing past the old inn, and it wouldn’t do to make a third pass. Most of the men communicated with Sparrow in English because the agent’s Saarländisch accent baffled nearly everyone but LeBeau, who miraculously could understand him.

“They could have parked in back,” Sparrow said.

“Yeah, but that’s not how C-C-Colonel Hogan thinks. He’d wouldn’t wwworry about a G-G-G-G, Ger-, um, _ein deutscher lastwagen_ being spotted—he’d pl-plan to make a quick getaway,” Newkirk replied. “They must have mmmoved along to the next station.”

“The old Swede’s farmhouse,” Sparrow said. “It’s just two miles.” They continued driving, when suddenly Newkirk shouted to Sparrow to stop.

“Right there, in the bushes,” he said. “It’s LeBeau!”

It was indeed LeBeau, moving stealthily behind the hedgerows that lined the road, given away by the flash of crimson from his cap and scarf. At the sight of a vehicle slowing down beside him, LeBeau did what any miscreant would do—he broke into a sprint and prayed the guys in the truck couldn’t shoot straight. Newkirk leapt out and took off after his friend. He trotted along, admiring his little mate’s reflexes and speed, but he was immensely relieved when LeBeau glanced over his shoulder and came skidding to a halt.

What was Pierre doing here? LeBeau thought. The answer didn’t matter; he turned and ran toward his friend.

“ _Le Colonel_ may need help. He went into Station 2 and he gave me a direct order to return to camp if he wasn’t out in ten minutes,” he said breathlessly as they crashed into each other.

“Louis, you wouldn’t just leave him!” Newkirk said, spinning them both around. “Come on, back to the lorry.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” LeBeau said irritably as they jogged together toward Sparrow’s truck and climbed inside. “But there is only me. I couldn’t take on whatever he was facing alone. We passed a bicycle leaning against a tree. I was on my way to get it and pedal back to Station 1 to get help from Eva and Margit. They have contacts…”

“Sparrow, you’d better drive faster,” Newkirk said as they ducked on the floor of the back seat. “LeBeau, those girls aren’t going to help.”

As they sped toward the farmhouse, Newkirk laid out the facts for LeBeau, who was distressed, but not entirely shocked. “Why must beautiful women betray us? The Colonel had his doubts, but he wasn’t certain yet,” LeBeau lamented. “So, he should be alright in Station 2?”

“There are two old Swedes, Willy and Jenny,” Sparrow said. “They are kind, but they are also committed to their mission. They are armed, of course, and they take their instructions from Eva and Margit.”

“Then we’d better hurry,” LeBeau said solemnly. He turned to Newkirk. “ _Mon pote_ , does Kinch know you are out of camp?”

“ _Oui, Monsieur LeBeau_ ,” Newkirk said. “I believe his last words to me were ‘I hope Colonel Hogan doesn’t have my head for this, or yours,’” he said with a grin.

“He’ll have to have mine, too,” LeBeau said, clasping Newkirk’s hand in solidarity. “Here we are,” he said as they approached the farmhouse. “Slow down, Sparrow. We’ll jump.”

**XXX**

Newkirk and LeBeau peered through the farmhouse window. Colonel Hogan was at the table, his head down, as Jenny stood over him with a glass of brandy. She appeared to be alone.

As they burst through the door, they quickly found out that appearances had once again been deceptive. Willy brought a fireplace poker down heavily on Newkirk’s outstretched left arm as it pushed open the door. Newkirk winced in pain, but pressed ahead, bringing the gun in his right hand down hard enough to dislodge the poker from Willy’s hand. As Newkirk stuck his gun in Willy’s gut, LeBeau quickly grabbed a handgun that Willy had tucked in his waistband. Now they had the agents cornered.

Newkirk crouched down beside Hogan as he came to. “Oh, it's only a slight concussion, Gov. Be right as rain in a year or two,” he said, patting Colonel Hogan on the chest with one hand as he held his other hand close to his side. Colonel Hogan blinked a few times and then returned to his usual sharp focus.

“Thanks a lot, Newkirk,” Hogan said. Whether it was the concussion speaking or not, Newkirk glowed. It felt good to hear the Colonel say his name. "What are you doing here?" He looked over to LeBeau. "And you too. Don't you men know how to follow orders?"

"By and large, yes, Sir," Newkirk replied. "But we found out the Kaiserhof team was c-compromised. Margit and Eva have turned, Sir. And LeBeau here was running right b-b-b-back into the trap. I know you may have to discipline me, Sir, and I accept that. I made the decision to come after you mmmyself." 

“We didn't know," Willy said. "We were under orders from them to shoot you if necessary. Forgive me, Colonel Hogan.”

“My husband thought you were Gestapo,” Jenny added.

Newkirk looked up startled. “Are these two straight?” he asked the Colonel.

“They’re selling me fast,” Hogan said as he rubbed his temple. “How did you know my name?” he asked the agents.

“Colonel, it’s written right here on your jacket,” Newkirk said helpfully. “Same place it’s always been. Blimey, you did take a knock to the head, didn’t you?

**XXX**

Events moved quickly from that point. A call came in from the Kaiserhof, directing Hogan and LeBeau to the South Road, not the North Road as usual. Hogan saw through the scheme and quickly made alternative plans. Through a bit of misdirection and mischief on Newkirk’s part, the Gestapo received an anonymous tip about escaped prisoners waiting at the Kaiserhof. Then Hogan, LeBeau and Newkirk descended on the Kaiserhof, driven there by LeBeau as Sparrow drove ahead to Station 3 on the North Road to break news that the escape route had been compromised.

Soon, Schultz was on the scene and herding all three escapees in to his truck, with which he was thrilled to be reunited.

“Newkirk!” he said. “Why are you here too?”

“Well, Schultzie, I’ve always said it's a mistake to let officers escape alone,” Newkirk replied. “They can't manage by themselves.”

“Knock it off, Private,” Hogan said, but the pride in his eyes was unmistakable. As they approached the truck, Newkirk stopped for a moment and watched LeBeau get inside, before turning to Hogan to say, “Sir, I think I might need a hand up.”

“Long day, Newkirk?” LeBeau teased. “This is a bit more running around than you’re used to.” He stuck out a hand. 

Newkirk was so pleased to be reunited with LeBeau and Hogan that no amount of teasing would get under his skin, so he just smiled and accepted a boost from Hogan and a tug from LeBeau. But when the truck hit a big bump and he yelped, both Hogan and LeBeau looked at him with concern.

“What’s wrong, Pierre?” LeBeau said. He was sitting on the bench opposite to Newkirk in the truck, their knees touching.

“Um, I think it’s my forearm,” Newkirk said, clutching his left arm across his middle and holding the upper arm with his right hand to keep it still.

“Schultz,” Hogan called up to their driver. “Can you stop for a minute?”

“Oh, Colonel Hogan, no more monkey business!” Schultz said. “I told you to go before we left.”

“You’ve got my word of honor we won’t try anything,” Hogan said. “I think Newkirk’s injured.”

Schultz stopped the vehicle and came around the back, staring at them with a tight jaw. “Colonel Hogan,” he groaned. “Please….”

“Let’s slip his jacket off, very carefully,” Hogan was telling LeBeau. With difficulty, they pulled it off his right arm. Then gingerly, they slipped it off his left arm and Hogan carefully pushed up his sleeve.

There was no missing the gash across the middle of his forearm or the deformity. There was an angle in the middle of Newkirk’s forearm that wasn’t supposed to be there. He hissed through his teeth as Hogan gently probed it.

“Schultz, this arm is broken. We need to splint it.” Hogan looked around. “There’s a box holding your extra oil and filters. If LeBeau can pry a board loose…”

“Ja, of course,” Schultz said. There were sometimes he could see for himself that Colonel Hogan was not lying, and this was one of them.

“And if we can get your pullover off…” Hogan said to Newkirk.

“I don’t want you to cut or rip it,” Newkirk said through gritted teeth.

“We’ll go slow,” Hogan said. While LeBeau worked to get a board loose, Hogan and Schultz managed to slip Newkirk out of his pullover. They slipped the board inside the pullover to provide some cushioning, and then tied Newkirk’s arm into place using the sleeves. Hogan slipped off his belt and Newkirk’s as well and used them to secure the temporary splint.

“Alright Schultz,” Hogan said when he was satisfied. “Try not to hit any potholes.”

It was a cool October day, and Newkirk was shaking in only his t-shirt, so LeBeau slipped off his jacket and tucked it around him. They rode along in silence, Newkirk leaning slightly into Colonel Hogan, who supported him with an arm around his shoulder, while LeBeau braced his friend into his seat by pressing his hands pressed down on Newkirk’s knees. The adrenaline buzz of the rescue mission was clearly wearing off, and the pain was kicking into high gear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The episode “The Flame Grows Higher” is loaded with great lines. But the single dumbest line in it is when Hogan asks Jenny and Willy how they knew his name. Maybe the words “Col. R.E. Hogan” right there on his chest helped a little? So I couldn’t resist mentioning it.


	45. The Walking Wounded

It was only half past three in the afternoon when they rolled back into camp, though it was hard to believe it wasn’t later. No one had slept more than a few hours the night before, and they’d started out early and covered a lot of ground. Hogan’s head was throbbing, LeBeau was depleted, and Newkirk was seeing double from pain as the utility truck slowed to a stop. Crowds of men were outside for recreation as the missing prisoners returned, and they parted to watch as the truck arrived.

Klink strode toward the truck as Schultz dropped the tailgate to reveal Hogan and LeBeau —and he was astonished to see Newkirk with them. When had the Englander left camp?

LeBeau jumped down first, then turned to help Newkirk. Hogan tried lifting him under the arms to lower him, but the pain was too great. Newkirk stood there with his arm strapped across his mid-section, unable to figure out a way to descend, until Schultz barked at a skinny, pink-cheeked Private, who ran off and returned a moment later with two wooden boxes, which he set down side by side to form steps. 

Newkirk made his way down, shaky and pale. Hogan didn’t look much better, but he nevertheless managed to keep an arm around Newkirk’s shoulder to support him. LeBeau had gathered up Newkirk’s jacket and stood on other side of him, tenderly lending support while trying not to jostle his injury.

“What … what is Newkirk doing with you?” Klink asked. “And what happened to him?”

“Oh, didn’t you tell us to bring all our best firefighters, Sir? Newkirk was a fire warden in London before the war,” Hogan lied, brushing a hand across his forehead. Damn, he felt dizzy.

“He’s been here for three years! How could a man that young be a fire warden?” Klink asked skeptically. “And why is he out of uniform? Newkirk, where’s your shirt? Explain yourself!”

“I seem to have br-br-broken my arm, Ssssir, and my shirt’s holding the bits together,” he said. “I was whacked with a p-pike pole in the c-c-commission of my duties, Kommandant.” 

Hogan’s eyes momentarily registered awe at that bit of improvisation, but he managed to keep his facial expression serious as Klink asked, “A pike pole?”

“A firehook, Colonel,” Hogan replied. “It all happened so fast. Newkirk here exhibited tremendous courage, but now he needs to see our medic.”

“How bad is it? Does he need an x-ray? Should he go to the hospital?” Klink asked anxiously. Oh, these bothersome prisoners. He hated filling out injury reports for the Red Cross and his own higher-ups; on the other hand, a hospital report would demonstrate his basic decency to the Red Cross and could substitute for a written report to the Luftwaffe POW office. Simplifying his paperwork burden was reason enough to let them seek treatment.

“Here comes Wilson now,” Hogan said. News traveled fast in a POW camp, and as soon as Wilson had heard that Hogan was back, he had started ambling toward the Kommandantur to see if his services would be needed. He didn’t need to be told that Hogan’s core crew regularly found more than their fair share of trouble.

Upon seeing Newkirk with his shirt off, holding a wrapped arm in place with apparent difficulty, and with Hogan arranging LeBeau’s jacket over his shoulders, Wilson broke into a trot. He sat the Corporal down on one of the wooden boxes that had served as a step and cautiously unwrapped the splint.

“Easy, easy,” he said as Newkirk winced and tried to pull away. “Gross misalignment at mid-shaft due to direct trauma,” he said softly. He looked Newkirk in the eyes. “Yes, that’s broken all right. Not an open fracture, though. That’s just a laceration. It could have been worse.” He looked up at Klink. “Kommandant, an x-ray would helpful in determining how to reduce the fracture,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” Klink said. “Schultz, take him to the hospital in Hammelburg, and take Colonel Hogan with you.” Then his eyes landed on Colonel Hogan, and his annoyance turned to shock. “Colonel? Colonel, are you alright?”

Hogan was sitting on the other wooden box with his head between his knees as his own injury caught up with him with a vengeance. His head was spinning.

“I’ll be fine, Kommandant,” Hogan said. “I just took a little knock on the head. Nothing for anyone to worry about.”

Wilson tried to lay him down on the ground, but Hogan resisted, shaking his head adamantly and whispering, “No, Joe. Not in front of the whole camp. Not in front of the Germans.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Klink spat. “Schultz, take them both to the hospital to be examined. Wilson, go with them. LeBeau, back to your barracks.”

**XXX**

LeBeau entered to find the barracks empty, and he felt very cross. Most of the men were outside, but Kinch and Carter weren’t among them. He tossed Newkirk’s jacket down on the table and sat down heavily. Watching Schultz drive off with Colonel Hogan and Newkirk filled him with anger.They needed him, especially Pierre. He was the bravest boy LeBeau knew, but he was still a boy, and LeBeau knew he was the best at keeping Pierre calm. And what if the Colonel needed help? What if this was a trap? What if, what if, what if? And where were Kinch and Carter? Where was his team when he needed them?

He didn’t have to wait for his answer. The bunkbed entrance to the tunnel clattered open, and two heads popped out.

“LeBeau! You’re back!” Carter said.

“Where’s Colonel Hogan? And where’s Pete?” Kinch asked apprehensively.

“On their way to the hospital,” LeBeau said wearily. “With _Wilson_ , and not me,” he added angrily.

“For what?” Kinch said. "Is it serious?"

“Wilson _is_ a medic, LeBeau,” Carter said, oblivious to the fact that he was talking at the same time as Kinch. “So it’s kind of makes sense he would go to the … wait. Hospital?””

“Yes,” LeBeau said irritably. “Newkirk broke his arm, and the Colonel has a concussion.” He looked up at his friends, read the alarm in their faces, and knew he had to calm them too. “Colonel Hogan will be alright; he’s just banged up. Pierre is in pain, but Wilson said it was not an open fracture, so that’s good. They’ll take an x-ray and set the bone at the hospital.” He yawned into his open hand. Saying the words somehow made it easier to believe them, and suddenly he felt like he could rest.

Olsen came in with a report for Kinch. “They’re going to the Hammelburg Hospital, Kinch. Wilson said Newkirk needs an x-ray. He said he’d do his best to ensure they return tonight. Colonel Hogan was talking and he looks alright, but Wilson wanted him checked out to be on the safe side.”

“Hear that, LeBeau?” Carter asked. “That’s great news! They’ll be back tonight.” He patted LeBeau on the back, but got no answer. The little Frenchman’s face was down on the table, and he was sound asleep.

Kinch took a look and laughed. “Come on Carter,” he said. “Let’s get this little guy to bed.”

**XXX**

And return they did. It was after evening rollcall and nearly 10 o’clock when the utility truck with Schultz at the wheel finally pulled back into the camp. Hogan and Newkirk walked wearily toward Barracks 2. As they stepped inside, LeBeau and Carter took Newkirk; Kinch and Olsen took Hogan; and in a matter of minutes each man was tucked into a bottom bunk where he could be monitored by his friends. The team had detected and plugged the leak in their network before any lives were lost. The price tag was three tired men, one broken arm and one concussion, and that was something they could live with.

A night’s sleep did wonders for Colonel Hogan. He awoke with only a slight headache and a few sore spots on the back of his head and shoulders where Willy had smashed a chair down on him. Newkirk was in somewhat more pain. Wilson stopped by to examine both of them, and reassured them that the first few days in a cast were always the worst. It would get better soon, and in about six weeks the arm would be as good as new.

Six weeks, Newkirk thought as he sat at the table with a cup of tea late that afternoon. That would be early December. By then he’d be three weeks away from eighteen. And in eyes of the RAF, Peter Newkirk at eighteen would finally be every inch the man he already considered himself to be. He’d be able to do everything he’d done before this whole sordid mess had begun with Andrew-Bloody-Carter’s nosy questions about his birthdate and Martin-Bloody-O’Keefe’s unfair disclosure about his age.

Assuming he wasn’t court martialed first, that is.

Because at this very moment, Colonel Hogan was beckoning Newkirk to step inside his office. And there was no doubt on Newkirk’s mind that he was about to be chewed up and spat back out for disobeying a direct order.


	46. I, Newkirk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter, sorry. We're getting to the end! Please read and review! I miss getting feedback!

“Sit,” Hogan commanded. Then, after boosting Newkirk onto a stool at the table in his quarters, he added, “Are you comfortable? Do you need something to prop up the cast?”

The pained look in Newkirk’s face said it all, despite his insistence that he was fine. Colonel Hogan used a towel and a small pile of books to help him rest the arm comfortably at the table so they could talk.

He wasted no time getting to the point. “You disobeyed a direct order, Peter,” he said.

Newkirk hung his head. “Yes, Sir,” were the only words he could find. He was so close to having his place back on the team that he could taste the night air and the forest and the dirt at the top of the tunnel exit outside camp. And here he was, a day after he’d clawed his way back up to being Newkirk, reduced to being Peter again.

“It was willful. It was crazy,” Hogan said.

“I’m truly sorry, Sir,” Newkirk said with a gulp.

“You put your life on the line, Peter. And I’ve promised to protect that life until you’re old enough to serve. This could have ended badly. We could have both been in big trouble.”

“I, I knew the risks and was willing to accept the consequences, Sir,” Newkirk replied. He was trying very hard to hold himself together, and trying especially hard not to soothe himself by rubbing at his mouth, but he could feel himself shaking. The thought of losing Colonel Hogan’s trust was terrifying.

“…Of course, being that you’re under eighteen, I can’t really hold you accountable,” Hogan said. “You’re not responsible for your decisions yet. Not even the really foolhardy ones.” He paused. “I can, however, give you credit for the really brave things you do. And that was one hell of a rescue, Corporal Newkirk.”

Newkirk brought his head up to look at Colonel Hogan. “Sir?”

“You learned about important new intelligence when I wasn’t here to make a decision. You quickly analyzed the situation and determined that you had the will and the training to proceed. You conferred with your superior, and although he had his doubts, you persuaded him. You left with his approval and you undertook a risky operation. You intercepted LeBeau—who, by the way, did exactly the right thing in the circumstances by going for help—and you performed a bold rescue. You were undeterred by a serious injury until you were certain your mission was complete. You pretty much saved the day, Newkirk, and I’m grateful to you. This could have gone much worse.”

“Uh, uh, uh,” Newkirk replied. He had no idea what to say. “Uh, um, wh-wh-what happens now?”

Hogan let out a big puff of air. “Well, Kinch has written up my report and transmitted it to London. I suspect there’ll be some consequences for letting you out of camp. But personally, Newkirk, I can’t wait to have you back on the team. We need your instincts, your smarts, and your personal brand of crazy.”

“Um, thank you, I think, Sir,” Newkirk replied.

“How’s the arm?” Hogan asked.

“Hurts like the blazes. How’s the head?” Newkirk replied.

“It doesn’t hurt, but I’m still a bit dizzy,” Hogan replied. “The worst part was looking at Klink and seeing double.”

“Has that gotten any better?” Newkirk said with concern.

“No idea. I haven’t looked at him today,” Hogan grinned. “I’m only seeing one of you, which is good, because that’s about all I can handle,” he added.

“Any, um, c-c-consequences, Sir?” Newkirk asked. “I mean, I know it worked out wwwwell in the end, but if you have to show the other chaps what happens when you disobey, I can take my p-p-punishment.”

“I think that broken arm is punishment enough for anybody,” Hogan said. “Go on, now. I’ve got to lie down for a while. Wilson’s orders.”

“When did you start following _his_ orders, Gov?” Newkirk said in amazement.

“Right around the time he mentioned the possibility of lasting brain damage if you don’t rest after a head injury,” Hogan said with obvious irritation. “Kinch is on top of everything for the next couple of days, and I’ve asked him to start training Carter so that we’ve got a little more backup in missions like this one.”

“Train him to do what—not blurt out what he’s thinking? I’m not sure that’s teachable, Sir,” Newkirk said, wrinkling his nose.

“Really? How’d you learn to button your lip?” Hogan asked.

“You’re not serious, Sir, are you?” Newkirk replied. “Unbuttoning my lip was rather more the challenge.”

“Point taken,” Hogan said. “Hey—why don’t you just stay and read to me?”

Newkirk grinned. “What would you like to hear, Sir?”

“Whatever you’ve got.”

“There’s one I found on the b-back of the shelf in the library. It’s about a Roman emperor, Sir. I’ve already ffffinished it, but I’ll st-start over for you.” He dashed out in the barracks, returned with the book, and sat on one end of Colonel Hogan’s bunk while the Colonel reclined with his head on the other end. And he read.

_A.D. 41: I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus, This-that-and-the-other—for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles—who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as “Claudius the Idiot”, or “That Claudius”, or “Claudius the Stammerer,” or “Clau-Clau-Claudius” or at best as “Poor Uncle Claudius,” am now about to write this strange history of my life; starting from my earliest childhood and continuing year by year until I reach the fateful point of change where, some eight years ago, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly found myself caught in what I may call the “golden predicament” from which I have never since become disentangled._

“Isn’t it good?" Newkirk was hoping the Colonel would like this book as much as he had.

"It is," Hogan replied. "Very good so far."

"There were one hundred eighteen words in that one sentence, Sir, and I hardly got stuck at all," Newkirk said. "And that Clau-Clau-Claudius bit, that was on purpose."  
  
"Hah. I noticed. Nice work, Peter," Hogan responded.

"Did you _know_ there was a Roman emperor who stammered, Sir?” Newkirk asked eagerly.

“I’m not sure I did,” Hogan lied, unwilling to puncture Newkirk’s enthusiasm. “Tell me all about him.”

“Everyone underestimated him, but in the end, he was one of the most able emperors,” Newkirk said. "Of course, he did begin the conquest of Britain, but we can’t hold that against him indefinitely, can we?” And with that, Newkirk read on and on and on, until Colonel Hogan dozed off. Newkirk didn’t notice that he'd lost his audience; utterly absorbed, he kept reading until a yawn overtook him and made him want to rest his eyes for just one moment.

An hour later, as LeBeau set supper down on the barracks room table, Kinch found Hogan and Newkirk on opposite ends of the Colonel’s bottom bunk, legs curled together like a pair of S’s, both fast asleep. He decided to let them sleep, and they did, until dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newkirk is reading "I, Claudius," by Robert Graves, published in 1934.


	47. The Performer

Newkirk was bored. His broken arm had sidelined him and made everything more difficult, from playing cards, to lighting his own cigarettes, to climbing into his bunk. And having had a taste of a mission at last, he was out of commission now. He couldn’t even go up and down the ladder to the tunnel with only one good arm, and he couldn’t help with wardrobe because he couldn’t sew.

And he missed his friends. Everyone was busy but him. One evening, craving companionship while LeBeau and Carter were retrieving packages from the Underground, he came into Colonel Hogan’s room, where Kinch and Hogan were conferring.

“We’re almost done here, Peter,” Colonel Hogan said. “What’s up?”

“I w-was hoping you’d let me read out loud to you, because I’m trying something new,” Newkirk said.

Hogan was delighted. Newkirk had read to him when Hogan was recovering from a concussion recently, but he had had never come to him with the specific aim of practicing. Kinch had been Newkirk’s preferred partner for that activity, and frankly Hogan had been a little envious. He got regular updates that Newkirk was making great progress with his speech by reading out loud, and since his own birthday in July, Hogan had been treated to several performances that confirmed Kinch’s assessments. Even though Hogan was busy, he wanted to be part of Newkirk’s growth.

“A new book?” Hogan asked.

“A poem, actually,” Newkirk said. “An exciting one.”

“Well, we’re done here, aren’t we Kinch?” Hogan said.

Kinch nodded. “Read away,” he said, smiling.

“Righto,” Newkirk said. “The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes.”

_The ww-wwind was a t-t-t-torrent of d-d-darkness among the gusty tr-trees._

_The mmmmm, mmmoon was a gh-ghostly galleon tossed upon cl-cl-cloudy sssss, sssss, sssseas._

_The road was a r-r-ribbon of mmmm, mmmoonlight over the p-p-p-purple mmmoor,_

_And the highwayman c-c-came rrriding—_

_Rrrriding—rrrriding—_

_The highwayman c-came rrrrriding, up to the old inn-d-d-d-door._

Hogan sat silently, hoping he didn’t look as stunned as he felt. He’d heard Newkirk stutter severely, but it had been many months, and he wasn’t sure it had ever been this bad. And Newkirk had read out loud so fluently just a few nights ago. Apparently reading something new out loud was much more difficult for Newkirk than Hogan had ever imagined. His heart was breaking as he heard him struggle with almost every consonant. Then he cast a look at Kinch while Newkirk was reading the second verse and saw it plain as day: He was shocked, too. This was very bad. What had happened?

Newkirk finished the second verse, then looked up and smiled at Kinch and Hogan. “This is my fffavorite bit coming up,” he said.

_Over the c-c-c-c-cobbles he cl, cl, cl, clattered and cl, cl, cl… cl, cl, clashed in the d-dark inn-yard._

_He t-tapped with his wh, wh, wh, wh, whip on the sh-sh-shutters, but all was lllllocked and b-barred._

_He wh… wh… wh….whistled a tune to the w-window, and who should be w-w-w-waiting th-there_

_But the ll, ll, lllllandlord’s bl-bl-black-eyed d-d-daughter,_

_B-B-B-Bess, the ll, llandlord’s daughter,_

_Pl-plaiting a d-dark rrrred lllove-knot into her lllong bl-black hair._

Hogan forced himself to watch with a neutral expression while Newkirk struggled his way through the popular poem, and he held back his reactions when Newkirk blinked and winced over the most difficult sounds. The boy’s vulnerability left a lump in Hogan’s throat. Yet somehow, sadly enough, Newkirk seemed pleased. He looked up cheerfully at Hogan and Kinch. “It’s a grand poem, isn’t it? Have you heard it before?” he asked.

“It’s a classic,” Hogan said agreeably. “You’re working very hard on it, Peter.”

“Yes, it’s a great poem,” Kinch said. “It’s not an easy poem, though. Keep working. You’ll get it.”

“I know I will, mate. I’m, I’m stammering on purpose,” Newkirk said.

“What?” Hogan asked.

“Yeah, well, W-Wilson got some r-research on st-st-stammering and p-part of it showed st-stammering on purpose can break up the old patterns. You know, sometimes I j-j-j-jerk my head right when I say pl-plosive sounds?” Seeing puzzled looks on Hogan and Kinch’s faces, Newkirk elaborated: “The plosives are P-, B-, T-, D-, G-, K-. Now I’m trying to j-j-jerk left instead of right to trick my reflexes, and I think it’s helping.”

“Oh,” Hogan said. “That’s very … interesting.” He was rarely speechless, but this entire exchange had him confused.

“It is, isn’t it?? And I j-just st-stammer all the wwway without stopping and trying again. I’m supposed to br-bring the st-st-stammer out in the open instead of trrrrying to hide from it,” Newkirk said with shrug. “It’s better than a poke in the eye, at any rate.”

Unlike Hogan, Kinch was grinning back at Newkirk. “It’s kind of like you’re rewiring your speech, huh?” he said.

“Exactly,” Newkirk said. “Replacing the old rusty wiring with new copper. Well, th-thanks for listening. I know it sounded a bit choppy, but it’ll g-get better. I’ll try it d-differently tomorrow. Mmmay I read to you again?”

**XXX**

It did get better. Newkirk worked on the poem daily for 10 straight days, with some purpose in mind that he hadn’t divulged. Every day he became more fluent. Then suddenly it was Halloween—not something the British celebrated at all. But in a barracks full of Yanks, Newkirk had heard all about it and he was excited to be part of it.

The Stalag 13 Players, a theater group led by a couple of the American Sergeants, had organized an evening of sketches and stories for Halloween. Hogan and his men crowded into the Recreation Hall that night to see the show, and were astonished to find Newkirk’s name and his new poem on the carefully drawn program.

Two-thirds of the way through the show, Newkirk took the stage. He looked mildly terrified as he faced the crowd, and his recitation started off with a few bumps. But by the second verse, he only stammered over two instances of the word “jewelled.” By the third verse, the one he’d called his favorite, he had everyone enraptured as his voice softened to describe the landlord’s daughter. Through the betrayal and the ambush and Bess’s warning, he performed passionately, drawing gasps when he read:

_Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!_

_Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light._

_Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,_

_Then her finger moved in the moonlight,_

_Her musket shattered the moonlight,_

_Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death._

It wasn’t a flawless performance. He prolonged many of his M’s and W’s, stuttered a bit here and hit a block there, but through it all, he kept going with total commitment to the story he was telling. He had the poem committed to memory and the audience in his thrall. He was completely mesmerizing as he reached the climax: 

_Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,_

_With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high._

_Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;_

_When they shot him down on the highway,_

_Down like a dog on the highway,_

_And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat._

His control, expression and tone were impressive, his acting impeccable. His voice rose and fell and his pace accelerated and slowed as the narrative barreled toward its bittersweet end, with dead lovers reunited. He wasn't completely fluent, but everyone was hanging on his performance so thoroughly that it didn't matter.

The performance concluded to thunderous applause, as Newkirk blushed and bowed and looked diffidently into audience to find Hogan, LeBeau, Kinch and Carter. They were on their feet with the rest of the crowd, and they were aglow with pride. When Newkirk finally exited stage left, everyone settled back down and felt a little sorry for the next six acts, because none could match the excitement Newkirk had generated. At the end of the production, all the performers reappeared for a curtain call, and it was Newkirk’s trip downstage for his final bow that got the audience out of their seats once again to finish with a standing ovation for the entire show.

After it was all over, he was mobbed by friends and acquaintances asking him to reprise the death scene or explain how long it took him to memorize the whole thing. As the room was emptying out, Newkirk and LeBeau stayed behind to put chairs away. Newkirk did his share of lifting and carrying despite the fact that he had only one good arm to work with.

As they were leaving, Garrett, a sturdy American Sergeant in his early 30s and one of the organizers of the event, stopped them at the door and smiled at Newkirk. LeBeau might as well have been invisible as Garrett draped his hands over Newkirk, raved about his performance and encouraged him to try out for a play. Newkirk was more flustered than flattered by the attention, and he practically ran out the door.

Walking back to Barracks Two, LeBeau bit his lip and thought about a few things he was fairly sure Pierre didn’t yet understand. Pierre had never been the center of attention, LeBeau realized, and didn’t know how to react when someone took an interest in him. He’d have to find time to talk with him privately, LeBeau decided, but Newkirk beat him to it as they stopped in the eaves of Barracks Four for a heart-to-heart.

The adrenaline rush of an exciting performance had receded like the tide by the time Newkirk and LeBeau arrived back in Barracks Two ten minutes later. Newkirk accepted another round of warm congratulations and smiled as Colonel Hogan ruffled his hair, but he seemed out of sorts. He shrugged off a few questions about his inspiration, then quietly drank a cup of tea as the last drops of energy drained out of him. Perhaps it was the lingering pain from his injury, but he looked spent and he was getting cranky. After evening rollcall, he grudgingly accepted a little help from LeBeau in getting his nightshirt on over his cast, took two aspirin, collapsed into bed before anyone else, and slept hard until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened between Peter and Garrett? This story is told in greater detail in a missing scene story, "Flirting with Danger."


	48. Mending What's Torn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter flash back to Chapter 20.

On the last Wednesday in November, around five weeks after Newkirk broke his arm, Wilson and Hogan took him back to the Hammelburg Hospital for another x-ray. The two broken bones were knitting together nicely, but the doctor determined he needed two more weeks of immobilization. His long-arm cast was sawed off and replaced with a shorter one, which gave him back the use of his elbow.

Back in camp, Newkirk did what he could to keep his joints moving. Morning, noon, and evening, he raised his arm over his head ten times or more. He flexed his elbow. He stretched and clenched his fingers. He rotated his thumb. The cast would be off by the first week of December, and he didn’t want to be slowed down for any longer than he already had.

In the meantime, he showed off. After the first week’s acute pain had died down, he had perfected the art of lighting matches with one hand. A week after that, he’d mastered a one-handed card shuffle. Now he was tying his boots, buttoning and unbuttoning quick as a whistle, folding clothes, and doing magic tricks with coins and cards. As soon as he got back to picking pockets, everyone knew he was going to be fine.

By the second Wednesday of December, his cast was removed for good. He was stiff for a day or two, but he was young and sturdy, and he quickly regained most of his strength and mobility.

On a late morning in mid-December, he and Hogan were in the sewing room as Newkirk adjusted the lapels on a civilian suit Hogan was wearing to a Christmas party. His assignment was to blend in as a civilian industrialist and make contact with a counter-spy. The suit was an off-the-rack number that had been dropped by London months earlier when Hogan needed to play the part of the American deserter Frank Durkin on a mission in Paris.

But the cut looked decidedly too American for Newkirk’s tastes, and he insisted it would be a dead giveaway if he didn’t touch it up to look more continental. He’d reworked the shoulders and lapels and was making some final adjustments. He had Hogan try the jacket on over his uniform shirt.

Newkirk kept up a steady patter as he nipped and tucked. “This is a dreadfully dated style, really, but it _is_ wartime and you’ll fit right in. I like a classic look, but there’s a difference between classic and hopelessly out of date. If I were making you a proper suit, which someday I shall, I would recommend a ffffour-inch peak lapel. You’re broad-chested enough for a bit of extra width, but anything too wwwide would be out of style in a flash, and I’d want your sss-ssuit to last. It’s a very classic look, Sir.”

Hogan was fascinated as Newkirk talked shop effortlessly. There was hardly a stumble as he went about his trade.

“The question would be, single or double breasted?” Newkirk tapped on his lip as he pondered Hogan’s form. He grabbed a lapel and shifted it around to have a look. “You could do a peak lapel with a single-breasted suit, and I do think they’re more versatile, but for a fffformal suit, there’s nothing that tops double-breasted. Where do you suppose you’d wear it, Gov?”

“I’m so used to wearing a uniform, I couldn’t begin to guess,” Hogan said with a smile.

“You go to church, so that would be one place,” Newkirk said. “Or out to dinner with a llll-llady. Any time you’re off duty and you don’t want overshadow a …lllllady, it’s best to wear a cccivilian suit, don’t you think?”

Hogan smiled and nodded. “You’ve got a point there. A uniform is pretty flashy. You know, I’ve always bought my suits off the rack.”

“Oh, no, Sir. A g-g-gentleman like you needs a bespoke suit.” Newkirk stopped and patted his lapels. “You know, cutting a proper p-peak lapel is a very difficult task. And it has to be fitted properly, at the correct angle for your form, or the proportions will look odd. No, you’ll absolutely come to me for your sssuits, Sir.”

He ran his hands down the front of the suit to smooth it out, then clasped the lapels in his hands, tugging them forward to assess the fit. Suddenly there was a clank and a glint as something struck the floor. It was one of the eagle pins from Hogan’s shirt collar. It must have worked itself loose.

“You dropped this, Sir,” Newkirk said as he dipped down to retrieve it. “Can’t let that happen. With my luck I’ll have tr-trod on it and I’ll be down for another month with a foot injury…”

Newkirk was pinning the eagle back onto Colonel Hogan’s collar as he chattered. He didn’t notice that the Colonel had the most peculiar expression on his face. He was studying Newkirk’s eyes, noticing as if for the first time that they were wide, very green, and familiar. He grabbed Newkirk by the wrists and gazed, not quite believing it was possible. He heard a voice as if through a haze.

_“Ow! You tr-trod on my arm!”_

_“P-p-put me down so I can catch up, mmmister!”_

_“My old mmmman will be l-looking for me.”_

_“You dropped this, mmmister.”_

“What is it, Sir?” Newkirk was saying. “I mean, if you d-d-d-don’t want a suit after the wwwar, of course you w-wouldn’t have to accept it. I g-got carried away. Can you, can you let go, Gov?”

“No, that’s not it,” Hogan said, tightening his grip. “The American Embassy in London. Spring of 1936.”

“Sir?” Newkirk asked, completely baffled.

“A gang of people crowded me on the sidewalk, and as they passed a little boy fell down in front of me. He was crying his eyes out and I picked him up. He looked about seven or eight. He talked with a stutter.”

Newkirk was silent for a moment, as if he was searching through old photographs for just the right image. He tipped his head and looked intently at Colonel Hogan. “Ten, Sir.”

“What?”

“Not seven or eight. I was ten. I said ‘p-p-p-put me down.’ I thought my old mmman would kill me if I didn’t catch up. But you wanted to fffix up my knee.” At that, his face crumpled. “Colonel,” he said softly.

Hogan reached his arms out and pulled him in. Newkirk’s breath was rasping as he tried to choke back a sob. He clung tightly as Hogan stroked his hair.

“You were really small for ten,” Hogan said softly. “You were so light in my arms. Shh, shhh.”

Newkirk pulled back and sat on the stool that his clients would stand on when he was adjusting their trouser hems. He held his hand in his head and was breathing hard and looking at Hogan in wonder.

“I, I was, I was small for my age,” Newkirk said. “It was my j-j-job to f-fall down in front of a m-mark after the others had caused a commotion. I did it a million times, Sir. That was our turf. But then you came along and, and, you didn’t do what you were supposed to do.”

Hogan pulled up a stool and sat opposite Newkirk as he talked. “My, my, my old man saw you in your uniform and he thought you’d be an easy mark for me while he and the older lads concentrated on a group of tourists ffffurther ahead.”

He shook his head, struggling to recover the memories. “He figured I could keep you busy so you wouldn’t notice what he and the other lads were doing. And, and, he said you’d have mmmmoney on you, being a Yank. Everything was going by the book. They jostled you to get you rattled and then I fell down to distract you. I was supposed to get up and fffan you”—he demonstrated by brushing his hand across Hogan’s coat—“and, and then grab what I could and rrrun. And you were supposed to stand there and swear at me for being a d-d-dirty little brat.”

He licked his lips and looked, his face pinched. “BB-b-b-but I didn’t expect you to be kind.” He tipped his head and looked up at Colonel Hogan. In that moment he looked young and innocent. “My knees were throbbing and you were ever so nice. No one ever…” He took in big gulp of air. “Well, most people j-j-just pushed me aside,” he said. Newkirk rested his head in his hand again. “I, I feel dizzy,” he said.

Hogan was on one knee beside him now, a hand on his shoulder. “Take a breath. It’s OK.” He waited a moment, then continued. “Peter, you took my wallet, but then you brought it back.”

“I didn’t have the h-h-h-h-h-heart to keep it after what you did. Colonel, nobody ever treated me like that. I fffffell down every day on the streets of London scraping my knees in that same routine, and no one _ever_ asked if I was alright. No one,” he said. Tears were streaming down his face as he tried to hold himself together. He reached into the hem of his jacket, extracted his lucky piece and held it out to Colonel Hogan. “I, I took this too, Sir. I’m very, very sorry.”

Colonel Hogan folded the Corporal’s hand over it. “It’s yours. You keep it for me.”

“I always remembered you by it,” Newkirk said softly. “But I couldn’t remember your face. It was so long ago.” He looked at Hogan intently, then gasped for air and reached out. “I can’t breathe,” he said as Hogan pulled him closer. He laid his head on Hogan’s chest to steady his breaths. Finally, he said, “I wanted to go w-w-w-with you. Why didn’t I go with you?”

“Well, you’re with me now,” Hogan said, pulling Peter closer. “You’re OK.” He pulled him up to a standing position.

“Whenever I thought of you, I w-w-w-wished you were my dad,” Newkirk said. He was trying to keep his voice even.

Hogan nodded, fighting back tears of his own. He’d wished that too, every single time that slender child with wide green eyes had haunted his dreams. Finally, he pulled forth the words that had been building up inside him for months as he wrestled with his responsibilities for Newkirk. They were words that both thrilled and scared him, words that reminded him of exactly what he meant to his young Corporal.

“Everything will be alright,” Hogan said, stroking Newkirk’s back and adding in a whisper, “Your dad’s right here.”

Newkirk leaned in, just letting Hogan hold him, feeling a father’s warmth and tenderness envelop him as he never had before. He felt cherished; he felt a rush of pure love. And for the first time, he was completely unafraid to need it. 

“You know, I thought you were a swell little kid when you brought that wallet back to me,” Hogan said.

“I was a thief. I’m still a thief,” Newkirk sobbed.

“No. I was right the whole time, Peter. You were a good kid, and you’re a fine young man. You didn’t choose that life, and when you had a choice, you did the right thing. Shh. It's OK to cry. Let it out. That’s my boy.”


	49. Destiny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter... there will be one more after this!

“When did this happen, Colonel?” Kinch and Hogan were in the tunnel, having just wrapped up a report on the Christmas party mission, when Hogan decided to spill the details of the discovery he and Newkirk had made that afternoon. He needed someone to talk to, and Kinch was always his best sounding board.

“It was in the spring of 1936, when I was first stationed in London,” Hogan said. “This little boy tumbled at my feet and scraped himself up good. When I picked him up, he stole my wallet, and I never even noticed. But five minutes later, he was tugging at my sleeve to give it back to me. And that was the last I saw of him for six and a half years, until we both ended up here at the Stalag 13 Hilton.”

Hogan shook his head in amazement. “You know, I never stopped thinking about that kid. I wanted to believe he found my wallet, but I was always pretty sure he stole it. And if he had stolen it, why would he give it back to me?”

“Did he tell you why?” Kinch asked.

“Yep. He said it was because I tried to help him. I picked him up to see if he was OK. He was crying so hard, and then I offered to patch up his knee, but he said no. He was afraid he’d get in trouble with his father.” Hogan chewed on his lip. “When this is all over, I’m going to have some hard words for that man.”

“You can bring a posse, Sir,” Kinch added in a somber tone. “I think we’d all like to have a word with him. We’ll need to pat LeBeau down for kitchen knives.”

“And Carter for cherry bombs,” Hogan laughed. “Kinch, he was so skinny and little and scruffy, I thought he was much younger than ten. But there was life in his eyes. There was a spark there. Imagine being ten years old and doing that kind of job, Kinch. When I was ten years old, I was knocking baseballs through windows and getting sent to the principal’s office for dipping Suzy Johnson’s pigtails in the inkwell. I thought I was a holy terror, but that was real kid stuff compared to what he was doing.”

“You _were_ a holy terror,” Kinch laughed. “I was singing in the church choir and delivering newspapers. Peter probably would have eaten me for lunch.”

“He would have devoured all of us,” Hogan said. “He was conning people and stealing wallets before he was five. When you think about that, it’s actually incredible that he returned that wallet to me. There was something good inside him, desperate to get out.”

Hogan’s expression was serious. “I think he would have liked to have had a normal childhood,” he said. “Sometimes I think we all coddle him too much, but ...”

“…with all respect, you and LeBeau coddle him, Sir,” Kinch said with a grin. “But not all the time,” he added.

“Fair enough. We’re the culprits,” Hogan allowed. “But cut me some slack, Kinch. I’m pretty sure I’m the only thirty-five-year-old Colonel in the Army Air Force with his son serving under him.” He laughed to himself. “His soon-to-be-eighteen-year-old son,” he added with emphasis. “One more week. We’ll have to give him a celebration to remember.”

After that digression, Hogan gathered his thoughts. “Anyway, my point is, we coddle him to give him a chance to just be a normal kid. I’d love to show him America, Kinch. He could have a big Thanksgiving dinner where he’d never have to worry about getting enough to eat. We could all take him camping out under the stars and just let him have that moment of wonder at how big the world is. But how do you take a guy camping when he’s already been to boot camp?”

“I don’t know, Sir, but we ought to try. How do you suppose LeBeau would take to camping?”

Hogan laughed. “We’ll check him in at a motel. That would be roughing it for him.”

**XXX**

“So he picks me up and he says, “Look, lad, I works right over there and I c-c-can p-patch you up. I, I always wished I’d gone with him, Louis. But I knew the old man would k-k-kick my arse if tr-tried it.”

“You were so little that he was holding you in his arms?” LeBeau said with a smile. “ _Ah, mon petit_.”

“Leave off, I’m not little any more. So he puts me down and looks all worried about me, but I just grin in his face. Then I scamper off with his wallet and his captain insignia. But then me conscience gets me, the bleeding Holy Ghost whispering in me ear like Mavis says. So I run back and give him his wallet, but not the other thing, because as you can see, I kept that.” He rubbed the captain bars between his fingers.

“A souvenir,” LeBeau said. “He was kind to you.”

“I was shocked by that,” Newkirk said. “He was supposed to yell at a grubby kid like me. But he didn’t. He was crying, LeBeau. This afternoon he realized it was me, he was all misty and his eyes were red.”

“Of course he was. He is not immune to emotion. And you?”

“Oh, you know mmme, LeBeau. Tough as nails,” Newkirk bragged. Then he grinned sheepishly. “I mean, I might have shed a few tears, but, but mmmostly I comforted him.”

LeBeau did not believe a word of that, but if Pierre needed to believe it, that was fine with him. “He’s in your life for a reason,” LeBeau said simply. “It’s destiny.”

“I don’t believe in destiny any more than I believe in the Holy Ghost, LeBeau,” Newkirk scoffed.

“You should believe in both, and in angels, too, because in your life you have many of those,” LeBeau said in all seriousness. “Trust me on this. You know about Pascal’s wager?”

“What? Who?”

“No, then? _Mon Dieu_ , Pierre, we must do something about your education. Alright, let me explain it to you. It’s in gambling terms so that you, my friend, will understand. Pascal is one of the world’s great philosophers, you see. Let me think how to say this in English,” he said. LeBeau sat quietly pondering for a moment, then began.

“Belief is a wise wager. If you grant that faith cannot be proved, what harm will come to you if you gamble on its truth and it proves false? If you gain, you gain all; if you lose, you lose nothing. Wager, then, without hesitation, that He exists.”

Newkirk’s eyes grew wide.

“Trust me,” LeBeau said. “Nothing happens without a reason. People come into your life to help guide you. A boy who needs a father finds a father.”

“And a boy who needs a big brother finds the best one he could wish for, and a few spares to boot,” Newkirk said. “Thanks, Louis.”


	50. Eighteen at Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On behalf of my collaborator, Valashu, and myself, a sincere thank you to everyone who joined us on this journey! She had a concept that was fascinating and challenging to me: To make Newkirk much younger than he is on the series. We had a great time talking about this story and debating how to be true to the canon character while exploring some different possibilities. We exchanged hundreds of messages to discuss what would and wouldn't be in character and what experiences would help to showcase Newkirk's growth. This story would not have been possible without Valashu's ideas and constant input and feedback. 
> 
> The story is intended to be a hero's journey in the classic sense, though the journey was undertaken by our heroes from within the confines of a POW camp. We published around 90,000 words in two months! We're grateful for all the supportive comments we've already received, and would love your feedback on this story now that it is complete.
> 
> One reason we particularly want feedback is that two sequels are already in progress. (As well as one or two missing scene stories.) The first is a revised version of the story Peter and Anja, which is already partially published on Fanfiction.net. The second story will be about Newkirk and (mostly) Hogan and LeBeau in the post-war era. We'd welcome ideas about developments that intrigued you that perhaps we could expand upon!
> 
> Finally, a note about the German words used in this story: At one point, Newkirk says "Promise me?" to Schultz and he replies "I promise you." The second bit of German is just Schultz wishing Newkirk a happy birthday.
> 
> And the government actually did announce on December 22, 1943, the new policy that has Schultz so worried.
> 
> Happy reading!

Newkirk was up early on the morning of December 22, just waiting for someone to say something. All around him, men were getting dressed, brushing their teeth, and jostling for hot water and a turn at the mirror so they could shave. He sat at the table, shuffling his cards, riffling them, fanning them, and quietly keeping tabs on his mates. Everyone was busy, and the edges of his old pack of cards were brown, tatty and sticky, making shuffling more difficult and less satisfying.

Carter sat opposite him and lit a cigarette. “G’morning, Newkirk,” he said with a grin.

“Morning, Andrew,” Newkirk replied.

“You know I was just thinking about today…” Carter said.

“Yes?” Newkirk said expectantly.

“We ought to go over to the rec hall once we’re off detail and look through the new records from that Red Cross shipment that came in yesterday,” Carter said. “Our old ones are really worn out. I’ll bet there’s some good new stuff. Maybe there’ll be some Glenn Miller or Harry James.”

“Or Dizzy Gillespie, or Charlie Parker,” Kinch put in as he passed by with his shaving gear.

“I don’t know,” Newkirk said glumly. “I don’t even really like j-j-jazz, Andrew,” he added.

“Jeez, Newkirk, that’s un-American!” Carter said.

“What’s your point, Andrew?” Newkirk said wearily. This day was not off to a great start. “Fine. I’ll go with you. I probably won’t have anything better to do.”

Newkirk glanced up and could have sworn he saw Carter winking. He peered over his shoulder and saw LeBeau darting by, lining up to shave. Wankers, he thought. Neither of them remembered.

“You don’t need to shave, Andrew?” Newkirk asked.

Carter swiped a hand over his face. “Nah, I shaved yesterday. I can go until tomorrow.” He leaned across the table to study Newkirk’s face. “You could use one, though.”

“What, me?” Newkirk said in surprise. 

“Yeah, when’s the last time you shaved?” Carter replied.

“I don’t know. About five days ago,” Newkirk said petulantly.

“Well, any day now, pal,” Carter said.

The door flung open, and with his usual impeccable timing, Hogan emerged from his quarters just in time to greet Schultz.

“Five minutes, boys,” Schultz bellowed. “Everyone get ready for roll call. No one can be late.” Schultz usually had a gleam of cheer in his eyes in the mornings, but this morning there was nothing but gloom.

“What’s up, Schultzie? You look down in the mouth,” Hogan said.

“Something you ate Schultz? You really need to stay away from that ruddy Kraut food in the mess hall,” Newkirk quipped.

Schultz looked so forlorn that he ignored the insult. He edged over to the table, where Colonel Hogan was now hovering over Carter. “Our government announced this morning that all boys 16 and over will have to register for military duty starting in January,” Schultz said quietly. “My oldest boy was 16 last month. I thought we might have a chance of ending this war before he was drafted.”

Newkirk’s expression had turned serious, and he was looking up at Schultz, trying to form words. Hogan felt an ache in his heart as he looked at Newkirk. He knew all too well what it meant to leave home so young.

Carter spoke up first. “That’s a shame, Schultz. Sixteen is much too young. I mean, he’s just a little kid. Sixteen is barely…” Carter ran out of steam as Newkirk tried to assert himself.

“If, if, if,” Newkirk said. “If, if, if…”

Schultz looked at him with a patient and paternal expression. “Ja, Newkirk?”

“If, if, if, if he does have to go, I hope he serves under a g-g-g-good officer, Schultzie,” Newkirk said. “Th-th-th-that would make a d-difference.”

“Ja,” Schultz said. “It would.”

“Boys can be very resilient, Schultz,” Hogan said. “Sometimes we worry more about them than they worry about themselves.”

“Ja, and that is the problem,” Schultz said. “They think they’re indestructible.”

Newkirk was on his feet now and walking toward Schultz. “You, you tell him, then. You tell him you need him to come home in one piece. You tell him you wwwant him back, Schultzie. M-m-make sure he knows that you love him and will miss him when he leaves. I, I, I wish my old man had t-told me that, that, that he wanted me home,” he said, adding quietly, “Or told me anything, really. I don’t think he c-cares that I’m gone, but, but you care, Schultzie. So, so mmmake sure he knows.”

Schultz regarded Newkirk with surprise. He’d heard Newkirk joke around, but he’d never heard him speak from the heart, or say so many words at once. “That’s very wise, Newkirk.”

 _“Versprichst du es mir?”_ Newkirk asked. “And, and tell him not to be scared. A g-good officer cares about his men, even the young ones.”

“Especially the young ones,” LeBeau said. He had been listening intently. So had Colonel Hogan. 

“ _Versprochen,_ ” Schultz replied. He smiled, then turned to LeBeau. “Cockroach, after rollcall, you are needed in the kitchen.”

LeBeau grumbled, but Hogan didn’t say a word. In fact, Newkirk thought, he seemed to be enjoying LeBeau’s reaction, if the merry look in his eyes was any indication.

**XXX**

After rollcall and a quick breakfast, the men dispersed to perform their details for the day. Hogan had put Carter and Newkirk on the snow detail, working with a group of twenty men to brush three inches of snow that had accumulated overnight off steps, walkways, and roofs all around camp. It was heavy work that would keep them busy for hours. They came back to the barracks, hoping to find LeBeau had prepared a lunch, but were disappointed to find that he was on kitchen duty and hadn’t been able to cook. So they went to the mess hall, ate wretched bowls of soup and hunks of stale bread, and went to the recreation hall, as Carter had suggested, to sort through records.

All the while, Newkirk was getting edgy. It was a bloody important day to him, and no one even cared. That put him into exactly the sort of mood that frequently started making him pick on Carter.

“Stupid records. Stupid Yank music. Why are we wasting our time on this? I don’t listen to this rubbish,” Newkirk grumbled. He sat down on a bench and lit a cigarette. “You do it,” he grumbled.

“Aw, c’mon, buddy, I could really use the help,” Carter said.

“I’m not your buddy. If I was your buddy, you’d bleeding well remember…” Newkirk cut himself off.

“Remember what?” Carter prompted.

“Nothing. There’s nothing worth remembering. Look, I’ve already forgotten,” Newkirk sulked. “Why do you listen to this stupid music anyway?”

“It’s fun to dance to,” Carter said with a shrug.

“Dancing with other lads doesn’t sound like any fun to me,” Newkirk grumbled. “Dancing is with girls.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re shy about these things,” Carter said. “I could teach you.” He walked over to Newkirk and grabbed his arm. “Come on, get up.”

“Leave off!” Newkirk snapped. “I’m not dancing with you, you stupid git.”

“Hey! I don’t know what a ‘git’ is, but I can tell by the way you say it that it’s not nice,” Carter said. “What’s eating you, Peter?”

“Nothing,” Newkirk grumped. “Leave off.” He had a good sulk going, but he looked up long enough to notice Carter gazing out the window, his eyes tracking someone or something, then a nod. Suddenly Carter straightened up and put all the records away quickly.

“OK, I’m all done here for today,” Carter said. “We should go.”

“Fffffine,” Newkirk said, rising to his feet. He was following Carter sullenly as they ambled back to the barracks when Colonel Hogan dashed up to them.

“Peter! The very person I was looking for!” Hogan slung an arm around Newkirk’s neck and steered him in a different direction. Newkirk heard LeBeau’s footfall—because he’d know it anywhere—scurrying past and tried to look to see him, but Hogan literally reached over and pulled his chin toward him as he was beginning to turn. “Got any plans for tonight, Peter?”

“No, Sir,” Newkirk said optimistically. Good, one person hadn’t forgotten! Even if he hadn’t wished Peter a happy birthday, at least he was going to offer him a mission or some other assignment. Wasn’t he?

“Great! Because LeBeau is catering a meal for Klink’s visitors, and we need a waiter,” Hogan said.

“I don’t want to be a bloody waiter on my b…” Newkirk began to protest. But a stern look of surprise crossed Colonel Hogan’s face, and he changed his tune. “Yes, Sir, of course, Sir. Whatever you want.”

“Good boy,” Hogan said, patting him firmly on the back. He turned and, with his arm still firmly around Newkirk’s shoulder, he steered him toward Barracks Two.

It was already past three o’clock in the afternoon. He’d been up for hours hoping someone, anyone, would at least acknowledge that this was the day that Peter Newkirk had turned eighteen. Nobody cared. Despite Colonel Hogan’s warm embrace, Newkirk was feeling sorry for himself as he pushed open the door to Barracks Two.

And then his jaw dropped.

“Surprise!” all the inhabitants of Barracks Two—and a few visitors to boot—yelled in unison. Hogan had to push Newkirk into the barracks to shut out the snow that was beginning to blow through the compound.

There, at the table, stood LeBeau in his chef’s hat, smiling broadly as he stood beside a layer cake with pink icing, white sprinkles, blue letters that spelled out “Happy Birthday Newkirk,” and eighteen small white candles. Three small packages were on the table beside the cake, neatly wrapped in brown paper.

“How, how did you make it pink?” Newkirk asked in amazement.

“I mixed strawberry jam with the confectioner’s sugar, and it’s between the layers, too,” LeBeau said with a shrug.

“The bigger question is, why is it pink?” Olsen joked.

“I like pink icing!” Newkirk protested. “What?” he said with a grin as the men around him laughed. “It’s pretty, and I’m man enough to admit it!”

“It’s very cheerful, and I can tell you as LeBeau’s official taster that strawberry was an inspired choice,” Hogan said, putting an end to any objections anyone may have had to the color. “Happy birthday, Newkirk,” he added. “Carter, light the candles, and let’s shut the light in here.”

At that moment, the door swung open. In came Sergeant Schultz. His radar-like ability to detect the presence of sweets had not failed him. And it was he, after all, who got permission for LeBeau to use the kitchen and who bartered an extra cake for himself and one for the Kommandant in exchange for the necessary eggs, flour, sugar and butter.

“ _Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag_ , Newkirk,” Schultz said.

“Gluck-wunch to you too, Schultzie,” Newkirk replied, deliberately mangling the German.

Newkirk blew out the candles, and pieces of cake were sliced and passed around. Mugs were filled with a champagne and burgundy punch, and Newkirk was allowed seconds and then thirds. He was wobbling a little when he plopped down on the bench, briefly landing on Hogan’s knee before the Colonel carefully re-positioned him on the level wooden surface. Then Hogan held onto Newkirk’s elbow to make sure he didn’t tip over.

Garlotti took over as master of ceremonies. “Pete… that is, Corporal Newkirk… we have a few things for you,” he said. “First, a gift from LeBeau.”

LeBeau handed over a small package, which Newkirk carefully unwrapped. Inside was a small brown hinged case. Newkirk opened it to find a brand new Gillette razor with a bakelite handle.

“You’ll need it more and more, mon pote,” LeBeau told him proudly.

Next, Garlotti handed him a flat, dense package. “Must be a bowling ball,” Newkirk joked. It was in fact a book of Shakespeare’s tragedies, which Kinch had scrounged up from goodness knows where.

“This one’s from me,” Garlotti said as he handed him a square box. Newkirk bounced it in his hand; it was heavy. As he opened it, he saw a red leather orb with white stitches.

“A cricket ball!” Newkirk exclaimed as he lifted it out of the box.

“You’re going to teach me to throw a googly,” Garlotti said.

Olsen passed up a small package. Newkirk didn't even need to unwrap it to recognize what it was. "A new pack of cards! Thanks, mate!" he said cheerfully.

Carter stepped forward with a woolly bundle. “I knit you some socks, Newkirk. It’s getting cold out, and I was knitting a pair to send home my kid brother… I mean, my _other_ kid brother… not that you’re a kid, because in a lot of ways you’re older than me, and you’re definitely more mature than Davey even though he’s already eighteen—and hey, did I mention he’s in the Navy now?”

“Carter?” Newkirk asked.

“I know, I know, shut up,” Carter replied.

“No. Thank you very much. My socks have holes in them.” He smiled his most sincere smile.

“I have something for you, too. But Schultz, you’re going to have to excuse us for this part,” Hogan said. “Why don’t you take a little walk and come back soon?”

Schultz’s eyes grew wide, and he left protesting, “I know nothing! Nothing!”

Hogan withdrew a long box from inside his jacket. “This is something very special for you,” he told Newkirk seriously. “You have to promise to keep it carefully hidden at all times, and use it with great care.”

Newkirk nodded solemnly as he accepted the package. He opened it and pulled out a shining object in complete awe. Kinch let out a low whistle and LeBeau his hand, saying “oh, la, la.”

“It’s a Smith and Wesson tactical knife, designed to be concealed in your boot or behind your neck,” Hogan said. “I want you to learn how to use it, Newkirk.”

“I can throw a knife, Sir. I learned when I traveled with the circus as a lad,” Newkirk said as he ran his finger up and down the blade.

“Good. That’s a start. I’ll teach you everything I know starting tomorrow.”

“Hey, is there something on the handle?” Carter said. “It looks like it’s inscribed.”

Newkirk looked closely, then smiled shyly at Colonel Hogan and bit his lip. “Yes, there’s a message on it for me,” he said. He tucked the sheathed knife into his shirt behind his shoulder blades. “I think I’ll keep it right here. Every good lad needs a pencil sharpener handy,” he added with a grin.

Then Hogan quieted the room down. “I have a few words I want to say,” he said. “We’re all on a journey in life. Over the past nine months, Peter Newkirk has been on an extraordinary journey toward becoming the man he was meant to be. He’s had some trials and tribulations along the way, but he has conquered them, one by one. I just want to say how very proud I am of him and to wish him a happy 18th birthday.”

Kinch interjected. “Meeting the person that can help you in your journey is how you start to cross the thresholds,” he said. “Colonel Hogan, you’ve been that person for Peter.”

“Yes, he has,” Newkirk added. “And you have, Kinch. And LeBeau and Carter and Olsen and Garlotti. And even you, Addison, because you made me face my fears. I’m grateful to all of you, but most of all, my Governor.” His voice broke a little as he added, “I’ve never had a birthday party, and I’m dead chuffed.”

Soon Schultz was back and polishing off what remained of the cake. The men were sitting around laughing and talking, and debating whether Newkirk was more like Jim Hawkins, the boy hero of _Treasure Island_ , or Bilbo Baggins, the Hobbit who didn’t know his own worth, or the Emperor Claudius, who surprised everyone, including himself, with his ability and talent. Kinch argued strenuously for the analogy to King Henry V, who transformed himself from an irresponsible youth to a wise and capable king, but LeBeau resisted. He could not look past Agincourt.

Later that evening, after supper and rollcall, the men were getting ready for bed. Newkirk took a moment as he leaned into the table to examine his new knife. 

LeBeau elbowed him. “You like what Colonel Hogan gave you, eh? He has a great deal of confidence in you, _mon pote_.”

“He does,” Newkirk said. “Would you like a closer look?” He held out the knife, handle first.

“I would be honored,” LeBeau said, taking the blade and carefully unsheathing it. He held the handle to the light and he read the inscription silently.

“ _To my son Peter on his eighteenth birthday. Like a weapon, stay sharp and seek balance. Your loving father, REH_.” He looked at Newkirk and recognized that they both had tears in their eyes. “You have a very good Papa,” he said softly.

Then LeBeau smiled as he re-sheathed the knife and handed it back to Newkirk. “Come here,” he said. He laid his hands on Newkirk’s arms and pulled him down so he could plant a kiss on each cheek. “Happy birthday, Pierre. I’m pleased I knew you when you were a boy, and I’m proud to know you as a man.”

Newkirk wrapped his arms around his friend, held on tight, and asked softly, “You’ll still look after me, won’t you? Because I’ll look after you too.”

“Of course,” LeBeau said. “Just as we always have, frérot. Brothers look after one another.”

Suddenly the bunkbed tunnel entrance rattled open and Hogan emerged with Kinch on his heels.

“Break it up, you two,” Hogan said in an amused tone to the hugging comrades. “And forget about going to sleep. I’ve got a little job for you tonight. Newkirk, you’ll be a Heer lieutenant, and LeBeau, you’re a private. You'll be meeting a contact in the courtyard of the inn that's opposite the Luftwaffe field office in Hammelburg...”

The smile that crossed Peter Newkirk’s face could have lit the darkest night. He was back in business.


End file.
